I contemplate the decaying force of the forged nature, That i have been forced to admire. None of this is more special then a bitter draft at sunrise. I am just flesh attached to bones that serve no other purpose, Other than rotting; The beauty of everything that has ever Yearned to be beautyful is just makeup on e Xistentialist dross; I am the bitter taste of gall that circulates In the veins of those who still Consider the eternal penitence a godly gift. All your idols are dead, they died in vain, what for? ...Life?