September 18th, Year of the Corpse

To the man who walks slowly in front of me, effectively blocking my path, where are your virtues, and must they be so difficult to identify? It is obvious you are large, and eat beyond what is necessary to survive. You speak to someone on your mobile phone, and I am aware of a conversation better had in private. I am surprised you have people in your life that care enough to pick up your calls. I can tell by the way you walk, that you are not the type to admit you are wrong.

This man is no different than my mother, my friends, and those I have shared a bed with. They are deeply flawed, with few redeeming qualities. I can see nothing but black, despite my efforts to notice another color. The focus is always on the apocalypse. I tell them, every single one of them, that it is best to leave. My halls are empty, temporarily filling with the echo of my criticisms. Still, they stay.

Though I choose severity when I should act with kindness, the worst is always reserved for myself. Because, you see, it is easier to feel anger, to fill every corner with hate, to rebel with no purpose.

September 18th, Year of the Corpse

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