Senseless,
But sustainable in a sense.
There is this.. Doom.
This lack of motion with plenty of room.
But it's wrong...
Wrong, wrong.
Ambience at this point IS existence.
Parasitic but like Warpigs with bloody tusks.
Acidic to an addict loosing sense in his attic.
Like dictating to a brick walk about his diction or habits,
Oddly enough I stand here; in stability we trust.
I assume not getting excited at an opportunity
Is a characteristic of something more sadistic,
But with enough masochism as self-loathing.
The paint chips off the wall;
It shows a picture of you.
I lift the prism to try to find the right color,
But this water I'm in isn't blue.
It's red, like a picnic basket filled with the classic.
Butchered and warped like melted figures of plastic.
Sink...
Aloft.
Think...
I'm lost.
But provided the emptiness that comes with no sense,
The numbness calms me, I think it's progress.
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