Hideous actions. This world is hideous sometimes. The washed-over western comforts flash all the more sudden and shocking when pain slices across present frames. The world is largely indifferent. People die and receive parking tickets. Tragedies become spoiled dinner reservations. Billboards advertise to starving souls.

Here I am, trying, grasping, clinging, to a desperate hope with no name. But I've seen it in her face. I've felt it walking home. I've found it, abandoned in nature, wrapping it's arms around my form. I've lost it so many times. Just like Peter's shadow. The best that we are, runs away. The oceanic pulse flat-lines. 

Clear.

Life contains suffering. Everything is cultivated in it's sickly soil. When the flowers bloom they illuminate impermanently, breathe them in as long as you can, before they fall victim to an entropic atmosphere. A golden rule toward decay. Fight and fight, surrender and surrender, someone hear me.  

All I want to do is find a mechanic for the past. Machinations grinding and halting and sputtering agonizingly. All the while this rage sits on a low boil, scalding, chained onto the ground until the fighting creature let's itself loose or dies trying. I hate the apathy I was and I hate the useless occurrences of harm. I detest the illness of man.