We Are Born To Exist,

Existing Is Plagiarism.

By What Aberration Has Suicide, The Only Truly Normal Action, Become The Attribute Of The Flawed?

The Aphorism Is Cultivated Only By Those Who Have Known Fear In The Midst Of Words, That Fear Of Collapsing With All The Words.

I Am The Beast With A Contorted Grin, Contracting Down To Illusion And Dilating Toward Infinity, Both Growing And Dying, Delightfully Suspended Between Hope For Nothing And Despair Of Everything, Brought Up Among Perfumes And Poisons, Consumed With Love And Hatred, Killed By Lights And Shadows. My Symbol Is Death Of Light And The Flame Of Death. Sparks Die In Me Only To Be Reborn As Thunder And Lightning. Darkness Itself Glows In Me.

Does Our Ferocity Not Derive From The Fact That Our Instincts Are All Too Interested In Other People? If We Attended More To Ourselves And Became The Center, The Object Of Our Murderous Inclinations, The Sum Of Our Intolerances Would Diminish.