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[milkyphantasm]

where the apple of eden offered inabjurable truth, the allwhich offers transfiguration. your essence; a bog. a briny, salted thing, preserved like a wretched seafarer under frozen waves of ignominious unspeakables.

once tasted, you'll inherit limbs bloated like tincts of congealed hubris, doused in a lambent asphyxiated blue, suffered to squeal with gaseous, noisome excess in endless physical undeath within a black mire of lonely, deafening silence. a fitting unend for the piteous refuse you've painstakingly chosen to embody with each of your horrific deliberations, of which you insisted on recognizing as 'each breath'.

you are never to be exonerated of life's writhing squalors and haunting highs, never righteously beatified into the holy sepulchral lakes of mud, which, in a perfect world, would graciously embrace each and every one of us with the effulgent love of a permanent, gloaming mother. arms welcoming us back to our true home at the bottom of everything, after a ceaseless campaign of duplicitous vainglory that pierced through the primordial soup and unveiled every abhorrence it came to represent.

though here you lay alone, rejected, denied. peerless in your unascension.

long after the unwitting cooperativeness of humankind was rewarded with passage into the next great stage by our malevolent creator, you still lie buried under the weighted aeons, tortured by the soft patter of distant genetic cousins, ignorantly prancing atop your unmarked grave as they gleefully reap the emptiness we left behind.

"it should be me. it should be me. it should b-" ululates, in your long-dead tongue, from under untold ages of gnarled earth, horribly matted betwixt antediluvian teeth, for no audience in particular - benevolence of the grand architect willing, of course.

the tragedy being, that you are indeed, correct.

you were punished by veiled laws that you were never designed to understand, following a blind and ordinary prerogative to experience "things" that have always inexplicably sat in preexistence, and only to the particular upset of entities which you were not able to, nor will you ever be able to, intuit with your own worldly senses.

so now you lay, a lone scholar of consequence. a neglected, weeping tendril of humanity's horizontal enterprise, stretched far enough beyond the known and hidden, touching upon true anathema, and reeling from the poison.

. . though your aching physicality is helpless to churn out unspeakable, repetitious mewls in the painful vacuum of your hypogean filth - your once-human instincts for continuation and retribution have remained at your side, tucked away in some subconscious cranial region.

however, they were never meant to exist this long after our intended expiration. these mutable human attributes have since become cancerous and hulking from the unendurable presence of time's soured passage.

should the tip of some primitive digging tool ever breach your miasmic kingdom of one, your deep rooted humanly capacity for socialization might just take flight once more.

while you know that you'll never be granted passage, and it pains you so, you certainly can share your well-preserved knowledge with your newfound cousins and their children, who'll eventually be blindly welcomed onwards in your stead.

entirely unbeknownst to the incorrigible practitioners of iniquity that insist upon this silly evolutionary game, your secretive, wretched children will pass from stage to great stage, gleefully festooning the marbled foundations of each and every plane that dared not ever hold your berth, in a maddening celebration that portends the conjoining of all things, which could be easily upended should a benevolent creator - of which we have none - attempt to understand and unravel their ramblings and ravings.

their decorations of choice, of course, will be your harrowed recountings, then entwined with their DNA after endless ages of your foetid sermons. Scriptures written entirely with the ink of the conceptualization of antipathy, scrawled unto their eyelids and grey matter for so long, that their children's children will see your phosphorescent motifs and way of things flickering each time their advanced biology, whatever it may be, allows them something to the effect of blinking.

your vituperation is a potent, invisible anathema that presents the arrogant handiwork of your creator - the molecular structure of each plane - with a guttural disagreement. it aims to eat the foundation, and level it all.

everything and everyone you were denied will come crashing back down to you like lukewarm snow atop the world, and you will accept them all with open arms, becoming a crude facsimile of the effulgent, gloaming mother at the bottom of everything that you never had the chance to know. if she could see you now, would she be proud of you?

the undigested scenery of layered realities, now flat and decipherable, will float across the blackened sunset of your old, familiar skyline like cursed gossamer. it could be sweet, if only the portion of your thought center that processed happiness hadn't completely atrophied two years before you found yourself in that Arby's Drive-thru, considering the allwhich.

[milkyphantasm]

I'M REALLY FEELIN IT !!!!!