The meaning of life is to sustain existence. The meaning of life is to sustain existence by means of conscience. The meaning of life is to sustain the existence of your reality by means of conscience. The meaning of life is to sustain the existence of reality by means of consciousness. The meaning of life is to sustain the existence of reality by means of observation. The meaning of life is to sustain the existence of reality. The meaning of life is to sustain the existence. The meaning of life is to sustain. Life is sustain. Reality is existence. Existence is not reality.

Palpably evident, an inexpressible shame was masquerading blindly as stupor, for no confirmation is louder than silence.

And like the trivial yank of a chain, flush, the fish now dead to her, like it meant nothing to her.

You’re spinning now, around, and around, aimlessly within the basin of the toilet. You look up, to see her one last time, but she’s already gone, she’s at the pet store now, replacing you.

And you come out the other end, a life without her. But you’re out of water now, left gasping for air, jump, jump, but now you jump no more, slowly gasping now, then gasping less and less as the realisation settles in on top of where your dwindled hope last stood, she’s gone, she has actually gone this time, and she isn’t coming back.

You gasp your last gasp, but what’s the point? You let go now. Your glazed eyes staring ahead but not focused on a thing, for her face you can’t see now, you see nothing now, for nothing now is there.

“Eww! It looked at me” giggled a small group of girls that floated by amongst the sea of faceless children. The boy looked to the floor, there his feet housed by a pair of shoes, two sizes too small.

Against a backdrop of black where stars are splat, rivalled in beauty against a moon that’s fat, I wonder and drift in mind, as I dance in solitude, blissfully resigned, blissfully renewed.

Do you notice the stars that litter above? – It’s like a wash of death that’s splattered with love

“Hello!” came a sudden obscene outburst of excitement; the kind of candid excitement that only a depressive can craft.

“Why you writing?”

I like to strip paper of its virginity, thrusting in my pen and scratching, clawing, ensuring every crevice of its unadulterated skin is exploited. The penetrating ink bleeds within, infecting till the page is ravaged of worth like discarded gift-wrapping left quivering and torn on the floor. Then I expose the next submissive page, vigorously disgracing page after page like a string of insignificant harlots paid and discarded to the back alleys of reality. Until all the beautiful potential that is a blank page is brutally gagged and pillaged like the treacherous daydream that served as my saviour.

“I just like writing” – I said

Bulbous mocking playground maggots now swim in the pus of the festered blisters they formed. The lugubrious cries of a falsely glorified foetus feed their curious fetish. My skin stretched, clawing away the smeared mucus to get a tear, “Hey! He’s retarded in there” – They Squirt, they phlegm, a gesturing secretion, for those that don’t compare – and the little fuckers are everywhere!

My name is irrelevant, it always has been, never noticed, never seen. Because I believed them, I believed them all. I built a dreamland; a haven. I built a wall. I developed a hunch because I looked to the floor – there lay all my hopes and dreams, there lay nothing more.

Even a child with a pocket full of chocolate stars can tell you – nothing is great if something is greater.

I release my grip from the steering wheel, just to release myself from the guilt of suicide

“Where were you last night?” She stood there, scratching the side of her thumb, looking to her feet, staring at her shoe, willing one to untie for distraction.

The bells sing to the rhythm of a diamond ring, there is a king for every string, like a bite for every sting, in vibration they gorged, no monster is born but forged

The lapse of the pulse remains irrepressible with blackness melded and shades inexpressible, the infinite infinite compressed into nought and measured by that of sight and thought. Hours, years, and centuries all rhyme – it’s the rhythm of life, the rhythm of time.

All of space and time is balanced on a rhythm of lemons and lime, a puppet-master’s elusive rhyme, of a precarious design, now ponders from the bottle of cheap red wine.

The philosophical afterbirth of a life you submerged in a jar of preserve.

Look here upon this society of thespians, cultivated by reciprocal delusion, matured by observational amendment. My adolescence pillaged recklessly to state void of compassion. What is love, if love be irrevocably blind? This catharsis; this adulterated liberation, manifestly not blind nor gratifying neither. Alas love a deficient concept. What is this perpetual adoring; why this pestilent parasite? A mutual quintessence presents not. My sterile disposition inept; how can one adore whilst not adored? What motive is spent upon this desolate stage? I loathe beauty, I detest company; I despise what I grasp not. This self-solidarity of solitude is my narcotic ecstasy in this theatre of belligerent bastards; this congregation of arrogant pretentious cretins. What be love but a delusional comfort? What be life but a dawdling demise? What be thou, the god; recipient of my vomited discourse? A nonentity you be but a fictitious token!