So this is where I am left. Summed up as reconstituted undead; crooked spine, dissociated mind. My skin and name both bitter to taste and tongue.
The cost of this temporary deific grace was hefty; paid for with loss and humility. More than a lateral stride, but small enough to not crown it with the illustrious titles of "advancement", "evolution" or "progress".
I still look for her, sometimes. My newly astringent angel. But I can't see through the fog of one-sided wars.
I guess I don't understand this place any longer.
Everything has become an inverse ladder of privileges. Lynch mobs of Toohey-style justice mete out warp-stalked consonance under electron skies. Diametrically opposed to hard edges of logic and the rationale that A equals A.
I don't know.
I still wait. Every day of my life.
For there is no facsimile.
12:32 a.m. - 2014-12-13
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