Slipping.

these structures metaphysik holding us down, our blood cements these social constructions,
we be the foundations never the crown, our hearts and minds mere engines for combustion
to fuel the fire creating crisis. hiding in pits of flames burning skin and bone defining
only a name decided without consent
theres no ascention
but we can die trying
says i who finds it hard to get out of bed in the morning.
and
i find it comic that vying for the sublime is married with an insatiable desire to waste hour after hour in the TVs empty gaze.
feels like a maze yet its a direct path.
monotony grasps the spirit by the horns and calms the vivacity: turned to pacific emotion. how far from reality
i
and
i
have
s
l
i
p
p
e
d
.or perhaps this is the verity and living beyond the realm of convention was destined to never live longer than just a few eath spins.

that is farce yet it is so hard for continuity under ones own steam...