faces

The energy required to lift oneself up from the bootstraps, which the devil himself had ordered especially. Enough smoke and mirrors to make you think you're drunk, reverberating the past to your own agenda with the obsolete hopes of obtaining some sort of answer. Listening closely and losing interest in the very thing which can save you. Exhaling the thoughts and dissatisfaction of the day, you eagerly await names and harlequin aspirations which only briefly enter your world. Amazing and awful are the notions by which you live a suspended life, dragged by aspirations which shoo away the present which nips at your heels. Distracted and bloodied, a proposal of reform only agitates and slowly seeps into the mind. Death then awaits you around a corner, or perhaps taps its foot underneath your bed. Aloof and unstable, how will you create a world in which nothing can possibly threaten your sense of content?