and yet so resolutely chained. My mind wanders on, hindered, yet un-maimed by the advances - the stances, the dances of the future, technologically methodical.
Why is it rhyme and reason - a playful treason of logic, an efficiency project of derelict intellect suffering in knowledge
My mind is a gibbering buffoon - a saloon of the unseemly latrine of a tomb. And we shall drink to death! And to death, we drink and sink beneath crimson waves of peaceful, tortured, wasted unrest.
I sit still, and yet, in my chest is a squirming worm, a writhing mass of emotion that struggles in it's silent devotion.
discipline is meant for the king... yet it wrings us - we are the quiet sins.
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