Please, refrain from applause until I’m done.

When you get to end of the world, take a right without restraint. It’s where you said you’d go for love.

Sample this legion-infested shit; do a reprise on Life in C-major. Draw out your quandary and let its components peter out. Happiness abhors metric systems, labels and political correctness. Life has developed an aversion to being called a debtor, it owes you nothing, not even a discount for fucks given. Yes, even you Christian. You will, however, get a full refund on Karma. It’s a shitty tax system.

It’s a poignant world view for the drum majorettes; treading on already trodden soil, eating recycled dusts unsettled, of liberal predecessors. Reincarnation. Unending cycle. History repeats itself. Her Highness presents herself one last time, the zeal of conducting the misled choir belongs to the 21st century. She merges with the singers, every chorister now a conductor, each one spawning a new world view. Respect begets respect; don’t say you can’t. The Her spells in three letters like the Him. We get it now; [S]he’s important.

We didn’t ruin Babel, it ruined us. Discuss it with your best friend. Oh, he needs a translator. Well, pick up an Apple, enjoy the fruits of your labour. Message is lost in translation, now we swipe to unlock. We were branded savages. Now, we’re rebranded with a synonym. What is dead may never die, steal your piece of fiction and fly.

Please, refrain from applause until I’m done; depth is relative. I promise nothing. If I deliver, crown me king with your trust. Fuck your religion. Don’t seek validation, Sage says. But Sage is verified. Hashtags and wildfire. Not every gospel is religious. Join the bandwagon. Sheep needs shepherd. Worship is reconstructed, religion abounds. Let’s not discard love, we’ll hurt Cupid. Sage either lies or Sage is just stupid.

It’s not my standing ovation. You rise for yourselves, and you applaud your listening. Your understanding is not in a maze. No one can teach you that which you already know. I know life fucked you and didn’t pull out. Keep the baby, we never abort our virtues. Last night I sang a poem, I changed the rules. Today, I write for you, sing it in blues.

Art: The Infinity Room by Yayoi Kusama.

One clap, two clap, three clap, forty?

By clapping more or less, you can signal to us which stories really stand out.