Our pleasures be joyless doleful experiences.
We seek not life's beauty but cherish it's funeral
Aspects. We crave the (mis)fortunes rich in
their non entity rejoice in celebrating less severe
Tragedies. In the toil to exist we excrete
individuality whilst captivating internment in cloned identity
Real is The oration of stone possessed emotion.
I yearn isolation in this realisation. Reject the
Elation of blissful tranquility,
obsessions they lay with the bleak
and sinister. A wealth of treasures be
Ours to take possession yet we break bones
and gruel to savour simulations. Disciples of the
Drabness devotees of worthlessness consent to
endure the anguish and form only ashes. Real is the
Oration [etc]. Oh yeagh let me go.
Let me wander through buildings immense in their desolation. At
Peace from your catastrophe here with gargoyles as my friends