Ԁ∩ Ǝʞ∀M
Held be so many times, man is fragile.
No matter how much they absorb, learn, and take, they are nothing but dust from birth, and to dust they return.
So many aeons watched our empires rise, and saw them all fall. Man after man, turned to sand, and the Ocean swallows their ash.
All their mistakes, all their secrets, all their pain.
This mortal coil we call our skin, we shed, and the earth devours.
Our blood is wine, and mortal pain is like honeyed-milk to a babe.
Dreams are a small understanding of the void.
The nonsensical vomit you decipher and preach is bile that your brothers and sisters all eat.
Babies are the mind of humanity, and childishly manipulate themselves to be the most knowledgeable species.
Man stands on a shallow lake and calls it a reality, sticking their flags down the sand.
Reality is far deeper and a distance we will never reach.
The truth will break from thy mortal coil; free.
But that freedom is only a facade to insanity.
For the appropriate response to reality is to go insane.
