It’s one-of-those death’ days.

Surrounding. Intimidation.

It’s another diseased fleece without the recycled dolyester, pink in the gnaw that devours your tongue. That kind of sullen tone which holds you gently and gathers your thoughts into a sickle outrage, only to hurl you down like frozen mercury obliterating earth’s core.

It’s. cheap .pa.int .with .a b.ig .brand n.ame.

You want to shiver at the anxiety, and yet your mind locks up and hisses at the chains flowing freely across your human daze. Forming connections with the things you hate most.

The lies and visions chatter in silence behind your rotting soul, sinking the haste into your lungs and extracting the worst from you, exonerating from within your vision with the liquefied tar of a cancerous zeal.

Percolation is your bitch.

It knows where you eat. It knows where you sleep. And it’s hardly uncanny in the taunt that hooks you by the cheek and trips you sideways into the unlawful realm of Mad Hatter conspiracy. The kind of bastard that keeps an unpaid guard to sit at your rest, hungry from the hours observing your hopelessness collapse into a pit of diabolical respite.

His stomach churns a bright purple and the fantastic is so fantastic, brittle in the man’s mind trying to make sense of worms digging their way into his skull.

Fucking brutal.

You know, there’s a choke out there somewhere, etching it’s disgrace into the pigment of your skin, charred in the excessive guilt that scars your pretty little face.

“And you have become at one with the information, silly in the visceral attention strengthening it’s resolve around your neck.” Oh, I’m sorry. Are you real? Are you reaaaaally the kind of information that my mind requires to set itself free?

Please, oh please.

You must stop. You must go away.

I am the protagonist I cannot handle and within me is this urge to kill everything inside me, propogating innocence as if incestual rape were a mere accident.

All I want is to throw away the plot-line, along with all these awful aches and pains that float around me, telling me to drown at a flitter’s pace, seething like a cold wind teaching itself to gasp in silence. When I throw up all over myself, when I look at the horror in the mirror and cry, you can almost see the outline of my dark thoughts making their way into my veins, triumph in the sickness that grows without thought.

Daddy loves you Julius.

He wants you. He moulds your perception like a wet peach, and when the stones fall and shatter against the edge of your skull, fragments of that fruity taste linger as a side-effect of the stupid you harbour like gold.

My girlfriends all love me.

They tell me how wonderful I am, and they promise never to cheat. They promise to be there with me, even though they cannot. And they shove their heels inside my toes and make me squirm. Merciful transpire.

Literature, you fucking bastard. You have done me again. You have me done me, again. You don’t love me. You don’t even know who I am, yet you have grated me down into a burnt crisp, cherishing nothing in the broken attitudes which crumble without grace.

I don’t think you’ll ever come to understand me, but perhaps these words can express what it means to have nothing:

I am nothing.

And you are god.

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