A promise appears with life.

A breathe, then another and a loop emerges. Bounded to me, to the archaic assumptions of existence and of that possible greatness, we are defeated by a thought alone.

Sadness is the exchange we carry deep within our organs – as if air is not enough. Happiness completes the exchange system of demise – sealed inside our vascular psyche.

Still, as ignorance, as a statue, as all the symbols we follow onto a lost fray. A battle won from the losses of others. Still, we carry our self into those paradises. A sanatorium is built around us.

I’m not a warrior. I am war itself. Not fear, but fear as I am; a bearer of everything possible and, the outcome of fury and struggle. I chose to choose a side and this changes your expectation of rage. I can, as your reality, experience the observation of perception.

I was only flesh. I am not a whisperer. I will never be a human.

I am, yet a spiritum.

And so we bond, beyond the understanding of this world, unstill, until the strengths of this physical time and land.

Nothing more. Nothing. More. And death will carry the story above the ground I refuse to face.

— the monstruktor


September 7, 2021