Pangs of futility and hopelessness like cannonballs to my stomach.

Simply being has become an excuse.

Language, Mathematics, Art, Theology, all but cyclical, self-indulged concepts invented by Man to preoccupy his mental state, a selfish reassurance that not everything fades with one's own life, to legitimize the cathartic criticism or comprehension of everything unimportant out of the fear and apprehension of uncovering oneSelf.

Pursuit, Achievement, War, Wealth; all-too-successful distractions, the manipulation and artificial acquisition of positive emotion to give the superficial illusion of purpose, the self-propagation of superiority that potently prevents one from appreciating the equalizing power of Death.

The very creation of Society is an excuse, like the huddling of animals for warmth in an infinitely vast, infinitely dark landscape.



All is Despair.

Azazyl

Stench of humanity,
The rot of those fair.
Despair!
Of lost sanity and
Dreams never there.