If Your Words're True, They're

Maybe The Meaning Of Life Lies In Looking For It

I Think We Think In Terms Of Stories.

People Are Obscenities. Would Rather Be Music Than Be A Mass Of Tubes Squeezing Semisolids Around Itself For A Few Decades Before Becoming So Dribblesome It'll No Longer Function.

Humans Live In A Pit Of Cheating, Exploiting, Hurting, Incarcerating. Every Time, The Species Wastes Some Part Of What It Could Be. This Waste Is Poisonous.

How Could I Know A Famished Heart Will Eat Its Mind? Can Kill Its Body?