The disengeuous urchin, by his nature, is undone by the Pink Lady… again and again…

…Its the same everytime. We believe in it because it satisfies an urge. The empty void society and self has made needs filling. Its a self fullfilling fuck up. So we continue, blindly.

It grows. The boy in the head sniggers, thinking of the phallis as always…but with other names. It gorws in the head, to what it should be. It never is that though. Its a lust for flesh which we call that other name. Intangible makes it sound mysterious and hides its nonexistence. Its our secular god, the unreal reason in a reasonless existence.

This ends, this falseness. Then we are left spinning again. Srambling within ourselves on the floor. Screaming as if fallen. But we never even left the ground to start with. But the silence of the plataeu lacks the poetry of the rise and fall, however artificial that is.

Our mediocirty is denied, cast into the cynics pillow. We romanticise and aggrandise our emotional impotence. The grand monologue of loves great tragedy sounds so much better in our imaginary daily epitaph.

The truth brings far more despair than the hollywood melodrama we create. This pathetic, narcissistic emptiness.

So the cycle continues. So the cycle continues. We spiral within ourselves searching for something real. We soffocate and drown in the empty journey for breath.