Labors lost is our misfortune. A malfunctioning life of sin indulged in fervent lust. Breaking away the crust of an angry thought to invoke the pleasures of merchandise we've bought. Television expounds the light of yearning years of past. To fill the mind with visions of the myth of happiness. Curl and die while you think of the pain of the life you distain. And feel the hurt of that one that you knew. And feel the pain of that one you once thought was there and know for once that no one cares. And know that you are you and they are them and know that you cannot ammend for those sins. And know that now the sand where you sink was made by the stink of your own thoughts of happiness. And know that now your intelligence means nothing more than an open sore into which lonliness falls to spread its disease into your shell and split apart the atoms of yourself to make way for future beings. Perhaps what makes you you can become another. Perhaps they will be happy. Does that in the end mean you are happy. Does it mean you are sane or does it mean that you are on the earth to stay. To remain an energy or lack thereof to become in the end another helpless servant of love.
