necrocalypse

Look at the stars; they no longer shine for you. They no longer twinkle instead replaced by the dead stillness one would find in the blank eyes of a rotting dog left on the roadside. And in a way the stars have taken on a new beauty - a wondrous new shape which twists and contort in a convoluted dance for all eternity. The stars have changed or rather, perhaps I am the one who has drastically changed and it is my eyes, not the stars, which have taken on the wordless aspect of a dead animal. My eyes became reptilian slits a long time ago, cold and unblinking, which mistrustfully stare out at a desolate world.

It is strange to be completely alone once again and not to have the company of a spoon or bottle. I stay clean and sober because I must, although if I needed to lose myself in the madness it would be now. Time grinds her heavy thighs across a barren wasteland, every day is a blur punctuated by cigarette breaks, jerking off, and sleep. I am alone because I must be. This is my glorious clean slate for which I hope to re-create the Sistine chapel. However, I never understood how cities can be built upon cities upon cities. I’ve always been under the impression you must utterly destroy what previously existed before you can rebuild as I have so often destroyed everything I ever came to love. And the city I strain to re-make pales in comparison to the city which stood before which in turn paled in comparison to the city which stood in its place before that.