I want to write a story, but it would never be put together in the right order, the proper way for people to understand. It's hard to describe, the pull of wondering about being immersed in the biological waterfall, not a scene. Not quite, the euphoria, but never the ending. Never the obsolete. I am a red spark, a tiny light beam pulsing upon a screen of enigmatic colors, and pictures, and people. We're all illusions. God made us in his image and people are the imagination of alien astronauts.
We were designed and bred to confuse ourselves, or possibly we are simply being ignored into annihilation. But we believe, we reproduce, and we're alive. We breathe the life that fuels our existence. We dream of better places, new dreams collide and synapses open our minds to new organic dreams of existence. We are spores, and I'm not even stoned enough to think anything but that. So, Gabrielle. You've mixed your little bag, eh? You've switched the scenery, you've turned the tables. You've made them bleed and beg for tears, you've coddled the sadist and you're a loser, you're a creep. You're a million miles away, junkie not. Weirdo not. No one understands existential yearning, for everything! For eternity. For collapse. For survivalism.
But they wanna die. They wanna bleed every vein until they're bloodless spineless pricks. They wanna watch the world burn. They wanna have sex while children are mutilated and ***** by tireless soldiers. They wanna kill you and drown you in their seamen tis the season...
Wow I'm done.