So there's this thing, all vein and
flesh, that I love. And I wonder if when the skin rots, if this thing
will still love me. Is than anything beyond the flesh? Anything more
than the apes hooting and fucking in the mud? There are these pearls,
why not call them eyes?, she admires me with them, and I feel so
hollow. So empty, and yet she sees all these things in me. And the
beast, that useless thing, he howls and roars at her, telling her all
these things she sees are nonsense, a dream, an illusion.
What is love? Is it those beasts fucking in the field? Or is it something holy? Something from above? What is even above us? Those gods staying in the sky above us, looking down and judging. Fuck them, what do they know?
There's this thing I do, putting that clearness in me, that crystal that makes every damn thing blurry, and puts it all in a perspective I would have never thought of. That wildness, yet it's sluggish, creeping, calm, and collected. It's a like a B movie monster, slow and wearing bad a costume, killing all the college students and the sheriff too. But with no clear motivation or purpose, just plodding along because it heard that's what movies are like. Where's the message or the meaningful cinematography? It isn't there, the monster keeps moving, in a mock plot, only there to serve co-ed nudity and gore, that's all it can be.
Wouldn't it be great if we were all perfect, plastic and unchanging? But what's the point then? What's the point of having a perfect garden with no effort? Do things really grow without struggling? I don't think so, the most beautiful things are the ones that have broken down, and have been left rusting in the ditch, but they pick themselves up and put it all back together somehow, those are the real heroes, the real gods among men.
What is love? Is it those beasts fucking in the field? Or is it something holy? Something from above? What is even above us? Those gods staying in the sky above us, looking down and judging. Fuck them, what do they know?
There's this thing I do, putting that clearness in me, that crystal that makes every damn thing blurry, and puts it all in a perspective I would have never thought of. That wildness, yet it's sluggish, creeping, calm, and collected. It's a like a B movie monster, slow and wearing bad a costume, killing all the college students and the sheriff too. But with no clear motivation or purpose, just plodding along because it heard that's what movies are like. Where's the message or the meaningful cinematography? It isn't there, the monster keeps moving, in a mock plot, only there to serve co-ed nudity and gore, that's all it can be.
Wouldn't it be great if we were all perfect, plastic and unchanging? But what's the point then? What's the point of having a perfect garden with no effort? Do things really grow without struggling? I don't think so, the most beautiful things are the ones that have broken down, and have been left rusting in the ditch, but they pick themselves up and put it all back together somehow, those are the real heroes, the real gods among men.
