Take a shit where ever you please and walk away hand in hand with progress; that deceitful old man.
Always waiting for that mental ceiling to collapse, to bring the weight of the world like a flood of ideas pouring in. All your bullshit can't stand up to this. Eternity on the run, in an instance now, rolling right over us.
When the plague came we had barely come of any sort of age, a long held sickness in baby, brewing below the surface, spit up with the rising tide. The world spurred to action with a misstep, unthought. Some sort of inclination, a habit, a gesture born out of progress, developed over time. At first this meant exploitation. Grappling with your environment. Now it's nothing more than you grabbing at empty air.
And everything you believed in was a lie that sowed the fates of you and those you loved. Ah, but what do you care? Isn't that fate? And if the entire world is on one course, hardened in it's resolve and you alone stand up against its force... What does it mean to be armed with nothing but an ideal going up against walls built out of pride and sloth.
Well, you've all read Shakespeare, and this ain't no Shakespeare ass shit...
-A girl whose name is Chaos...I settle into the moment and she unravels me like the skein of time