Domesticated animals will walk in straight lines, we are here to tell the stories of our endings. Peace is a formality, Freedom is forced resistance, what will come in devouring our enemies, dotted lines segment the unwanted meat, as the butchers clings the blade. We sit and watch the blood drip off the carcass, what was once a innocent child, a figment of our diverted attentions. Socially constructed necromancers, the walls of media surround our inability to seek shelter in open fields. Communication is shattered in lieu of an image that speaks not a truth, but only attempts to entertain, to recompose terrorizing scripts that blind and defend the annihilation of a way of life to build another. It resides in our complacency, the pain of seeing of knowing, although we may not swing the blade, we manufacture its intent.
“In other news here a cute picture of a kitten named paws!”