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And there it was, thick as the duly appointed snow, all wrapped up in pink and awaiting annihilation. Faint whispers from the bosom quickly crawled up to the neck where it hurts. Someone had to pay the price. And when somebody did, nobody really understood how it all came to be.

The tiny freckles marched on making waves outside tradition. It was to mark the glorious victory over steadfast domain. In all accounts it was blasphemous, none of them really counted when it matters the most. To them they were animals who get beat up. How many times do they have to gamble for their lives? They have to survive to take over the fears that they hide inside, all wild and elating. 

The harrowing brought forth cretins from all walks. These vermin pay bucket loads to make others suffer. And while the situation is on the other hand quite formidable in terms of flexibility, all the silent treatment they received were met with vicious repercussions. People saw madness stare straight right through their eyes, and it blinks, and it twitches, and it speaks. For all the positive vibes they encountered everything seemed to go forlorn and according to plan. To them victory was in defeat.

Vigorous white knights gathered to form white circles amongst the plains of wheat and assorted herbs. They attribute only retribution as the primary source of mission, everything else was throwaway. That is to say none of them really understood their stoic ways. They walk as behemoths within the land, and it took them only several months of abstinence to gather their vivid thoughts of blind justice. The preplanned annihilation was to be returned to its rightful place, and it was those cretins who were on the receiving end of the long, arduous march.

Time told of misery and sadness and it was not between the circle that these gaps have been put to arms. Justice prevailed as do all good things, negativities have never been given moments to flourish if at all. The saddest thing was that justice bears offspring to that of a darker sort. Beneath the hypocrisy it all became clear at the point of light, that all words are as empty as the evidence of soul. Burning all the bridges and tongues are the only redeeming quality of creation. To witness a frail woman suffer while clinging to the lifeless flesh of its young, to see a rabid beggar stab a noble in the neck, to see delinquents commit arson at the whim of mind and comedy. Those are of the few things to cherish. Believe what one wants to believe. Death to the undying and merciless indeed, food for the etiquette of the rotten culture of mankind.

At that point beauty counters the madness. The spring times the summer to rest, and flowers bloom at the simplest touch. The ignored wonders recall its springing desire to be loved, a love that desires its own. When these two opposing qualities are in pursuit, it forms what we call now mediocrity, and beneath the ashes of it all lies stupidity and ignorance, which in turn fall to blissful clouds of clueless sorrow. There is no return to the unending cycle of romance. Hardened by knowing is the only possible stage exit to this theatrical fiasco, a carnival, a clown. The direction from which the eyes glance at the first opportunity will require all the necessary defensive mechanism one needs. The need is the only thing that stands between man and his ambition. When that need is suddenly at any reason torn apart, we fall into a category of multiple dilemmas, one of which deserves recognition as the general purpose of life.

The madness speaks once again in the form of billboard advertisements telling us lies, puppets to the trade and learning to abhor the basic ideas of ultimate truth. A piece of mind to a tasteless cake, made of dough that came from dried testicles of human filth. The wheels have turned to express its disdain while the knights push forward with all of its might awaiting judgement against the cretins and whores alike. Now it stands to be the moral denominator, all that oppose this cause becomes the madman, as the madman before the original author has become one with itself. It sparks a major backlash against the valour of the strong, the weak begging mercy upon its colossal opponent. It weeps gangrenous pus in its wake and thus proving its worth as the lover of none. Would the oak have forgiven the maple as its leaves drape over the branches of acacia? Nights have waited for crashes to long depart above the sky of vanilla. Constructive ideologies of the future never truly interested the masses, it is what is for them constructive in each of their pockets which is what matters. Above all that noise of retribution and clown and madness there is that concept of faith that only a chosen few have long bantered and failed to pronounce. They all go about it the wrong way, preaching the good news where it could have been the bad all the same. What is wrong with society is its failure to subtract the good and multiply the wretch, the loathing, and the despair.

Somewhere down the road lies more bosoms awaiting to expand and whisper in tongue the bad news of salvation. There the grill will open and from its brass coil it chars the substance into oblivion while wood and flesh, two of which are capable of combustion, are comprised to partake in a banquet of sorts, where honey and dew and the sweet scent of aroma suffocate the stage to counteract the spoil of psychosis. The chromosomes flourish the thought and all twenty one of them flickers the pyrotechnics on-stage while the raucous bombs of shouting echo throughout the orchestra singing songs of praise and hallelujah, while the bitch of old binges herself with wine and pork at the back of it all so as not to attract unwarranted attention while awaiting to be flirted by tall, dark, and moustached men of youth.

At the morning thereafter lies the intended mockery that represents everything that life stands for, the burning drool that flows through someone else's forehead with only one breast molested fortunately.

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