Ahh... the god of blah. Each utterance is raw and centrifugal. This trepidation conquest is not digestible. My imagination has been squandered by the gods of material existence. Where does the path dissect from the life support of ignorance. The feeding is but a suffer fest of knowing, but I can’t stop eating. Scarfing down the life support of substance for the farce of my existing. A counteractant of the combatant, which is my heart, the charge is but a succubus of ailments, as nectar from the searching seraphim is blinded by the human within the organ. The disease feast of wonderous things. Blah. Misery. Blah. Destiny. What a disgrace to maim my cells on the track back to sacrality. My, am I a failed messenger of the paramount duality of life and death. Only undoing in the form of my disgust for the unjust, planless life of nothingness. Maybe there’s a way to turn the page away from the clause which kills itself. Swelling with pride and joy, that’s just noise against the machine which moves away from itself into the godhead. Where does the alignment happen, of hysteria and peace, not ecstasy of distaste of the sacrosanct. Not here or parallel, not intersected or calculated to propose some solution of existential union with him. Confusion is sacrificed on an altar of slavery, to pursue what may be insurrection against the machine. How did the illusion pave way to such a place as earth. Where in the cosmic vibration did the calculation open a death star of thirst. Why did consciousness arrive in a place so unconscious? Will sleeping ignorance awaken to pave a way and set apace a thirsts satiation without angst? Or will we simply thirst forever, oh god of blah?