consequences

The evanescence of life is scheming

Sneaks up before you come to your senses

Lurking at the doorway

Trying to pull you through the gaping hole

Confusion makes you vulnerable

Passing through phases, as if each one weren’t

Reflecting makes or breaks your sanity

Hemingway, H. Thompson couldn’t do it

Not pulled, but blown up from their living hell

Their living hell is where we live everyday

It’s so ephemeral we can’t recognize it

We’re so mindless in it

The slyness of it

The dryness of it

Weariness is the master of my soul

How can you be so cold?

You planned this all along