Pains pressure my will as misconception reigns supreme.
I lean into an empty can, salvage every last bit until the smooth sides are all that remain and the linger of presence fades.
Tinney sounds echo from my orchestra, that plays empty notes and empty rhythms.
Pain’s pressure, pushes my passive existance into brief pauses of passion.
The will to set free my daemons, to exert all that I can muster, muster from the universe – to free myself.
it comes to me – these thoughts, strange as they are as winds of deception. keys to inevitable indexes.
to argue for argue’s sake is to find these indexes – indexrs to nothing meaningfull – only self preservation in ones mind.
pains pressure holgs me tightly.
Every man yearns to sleep, for in sleep all that is, isn’t for a brief period – and this is calming.