December 19th, Year of the Corpse

Those that entertain are rarely entertained. My shoes are wearing thin, and my brain no longer hangs on to the words produced by others. I have had enough of the waiting on red to splash on white. And although I put on a show, I am not an artist; I am a record keeper. Once the words are found and in formation, it is then time to manipulate them. I work them like clay, and fashion them into something beautiful. But words are not spoken until the experience is dead. So it is that death is art. Still, I am only a record keeper.

Everything I own is only borrowed or stolen. My men all belong to someone else. These thoughts that twist me, were written by someone far more important. My speech is an ill-fitting appropriation. I am a copy of what I thought to be alluring on someone else.

I have had enough of me. The nicotine smokescreen does not hide my intentions well anymore. I am easy to predict, easy to catch.

I find my destiny and hand it to someone else experiencing lack. My altruism is a well-masked expression of cowardice. I give to resent. I love to feel the rancor that comes with disappointment. I have cut out my own tongue, knowing nothing I say will make a difference.

December 19th, Year of the Corpse

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