She doesn’t cry, she endures, accepting the selfishness in which we abide, waiting us out, in herself she confides, and although we have used and abused, consumed and exhumed, perfumed and entombed her, she lets us continue to pretend that she is the follower and we are the masters, although she is the rock and we are like a contagious disease, moving freely and destroying all that we please –

– mistaking her support for weakness, we choose lust over reason – let us reflect on the shame we have seasoned – she will go on sustaining as we melt into irrelevance – the dichotomy of a creature destroyed by its own intelligence.



Painting our illusions in 108 words a day.


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