I contemplate the decaying force of the forged nature, that I have been forced to admire
None of this is more special then a bitter draft at sunrise
I am just the flesh attached to bones that serve no other purpose, other than rotting;
The beauty of everything that has ever yearned to be beautiful is just makeup on existentialist dross;
I am the bitter taste of gall that circulates in the veins of those who still consider the eternal penitence a godly gift;
All your idols are dead, they died in vain, what for?
Life?