These struggling personal kingdoms set against waves of amber grain. Is isolation truly freedom if you’ve got straw for brains? A signal for crows to feed, stuck into the rotting earth standing amongst the weeds divining dirt for holy worth. So I build these castles inside my head and guard with ramparts my jaded heart. Entrenched in the kingdom of the dead where hollow men no longer tread. And to think, doomed from the start by the nature of the thread that held me fast to my part in the fabled glory of divine art. As ignorance is my surest bliss, then I’ll sink into its tender abyss. To fade like the midnight star that tires of its eternal chore, I’d gladly extend an invitation to the simplest self-disintegration. But I simply haven’t the heart, and I’ve got no fucking soul. This is the way the world is.
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