Byline: Inert Apocalypse
The curse of most talented people isn't their talent but their inertia.
Demanding the unmet needs of humanity is a setup for dissatisfaction.
I know. I spent time trying to sell the ritual, doing my best to serve the business.
Ancestors of ancient vandals are hip to the goon squad.
All modern scenes are nothing more than smoke screens.
Cynicism for citizens is a right, is a lie, is a tragic irony for the iron age of all time.
Every mission has its hardship parts. Pain is prerequisite to passion. There'll always be a next Black Sabbath that finds itself in fashion.
Forecasting is easy. Rattle no future incentive and you'll be granted no present love. Confounded and compounded let your interest grow immaculate.
Grabbing grab bags filled with books of flash fiction and soaking in all the orgy of information found at my fingertips, I sip glasses of merlot with New York strip.
The fire spread to neighboring houses. I type photo captions found on today's text.
A sanitized anarchist gets kissed like a rockabilly futurist pretending that he's pissed what he wished, what he wished.
An infinite redemption for instant humanity gets my polyglot alive. I polish rare and valuable skills for exchange with the universe.
Restraint and restraining should be repeated says that real dry piece of toast who calls himself a critic.
Babble on Babylon. You were destroyed by language not fire.
So get goin' with good communication then maybe your intentions don't become unintended.
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