Missed days are the primary ingredient for wasted life souffle. The weather doesn't deter a crush of humanity that presses itself against shatterproof windows. Consumerism become a choking miasma infecting every insipid plebian. The skies are thick with threats, from rain to nuclear warfare. I loathe myself for imperfect discipline as age slowly cripples my hands. and retreat to a lonely mountaintop, where I can self-flagellate in privacy.

10:51 a.m. - 2017-01-02