I am violence, the numbest fringe of psychotic oversentience. Randomly preaching the end of time to the inexperienced intervention of melting disparities. Nothing wavers through my soul as it ignites these tubular fumes of arsenic vengeance.

Oh lord, please forgive me. Forsake how I had faith in you once. Bring me patience so I can sweep a constant indeterminacy through my vocal cords, for you are a mere mirage in this filament of metafiction. The insincere extinction of secular formulations.


No Nilofer, we can’t be indulgent right now, voices have stranded us with meager solitudes only to watch us salivate in desperate cravings. But gravity is stronger than destiny, and we’ll find a way to reconcile this sacrosanct killings. Many years will pass; Oceans will dry, moons will breed life, but you will still be mine.

I’ve no longer conquered the vicinities of this chessboard, but I know the moves that will serve the pleasures of your wendigo dresses. It wont make it right, but history will write itself through the incident grammar of neutered synagogues. Both eyes will look for obscenities, far beyond the luscious manifestation of pheromones.

Bodily reconnaissance, a neural rendezvous. Nails and kidneys rose from jaundiced dissections, controlling our bonds of maudlin intolerance. I lied to let you go, because you didn’t yield and answer beneath this vortex. But I can ask you to follow these leads, so you can crawl your way out, into this soul.


What path are you supposed to take if all of them end in your untimely death? Only one of them is actually consequential, but how about the rest? Look at yourself, can you make the others’ deaths more bearable or purposeful? This domino effect always ends the same, the worthless fabric of the choices one has made.

The mirror answers you with rigor, showing you how you didn’t succeed. But you lied to yourself, all this time you’ve taught yourself how to deceive your own metabolism.  Your soul rests in a dream world constructed by your mythomania, but you can’t build a connection with the real beings. The feelings you fathom are meaningless if they are not actually felt.

And now you’re facing the roads. You don’t take the shortest, nor the longest path; You just don’t walk at all. You wait for infinity to call you, to name a bridge in your honor, to have a day with your surname, to make a theorem with your memory. But the only thing that will ever happen is yourself, writing your own name in the mud left after the last storm. Throwing its fury within the tangled division of these paths. Your name only lasts until the next storm, so inconsequential.

And even if you could leave your footprint in the surface of the moon, will it be of any use? In the end, will you be of any worth?


Some might argue about my own vertiginous verbose when you insult me with your opportunist propaganda. I fell for you, just in time for the anger of blizzards, when you knew I couldn’t hold on to my ticket. You stirred up snow in front of your blindfold, making both of us limited to see beyond our intentions.

You glance at me, but you could glance beside me. I could think of fearing you, but I’m no one to hold the flood in you. A whiteout shrouds our virtuous nothingness, only to repel the leverage of this tense scenario. Because there is only you and me in this spatial Holy See.

Despair Is

I buried you that night, just after I watched you die for a second time. As I stand atop this vaudevillian cemetery, all that crosses my mind is one distant thought; “Apathy is a right and despair is a virtue”.  The better person came out of you while you were dying; You loved, you smiled, you didn’t let yourself wither away into the vulgar minstrelsy.

But, you still died.

Your Virtue

It suddenly became so inorganic; lifeless. The way you crossed the river without struggling through the current made you seem so out of touch. I watched you deviate from the singularity of your commitments, and it ended so vaguely, that no one knows if it ever had a resolution. But I only tell you the way I witnessed it.

Many years passed before I could understand what you said. The hours collapsed as I feared they would. I theorized about your permanence in my thoughts, but I already knew you were out of my life, I just hadn’t come to accept the terms of this argument. I believed in lies when I spoke through them. Needless to say, I knew about this charade. So what happens next?

What happens is your breathing. Slowly inhaling your arrest. Your virtue is not the art of deceiving, but your ability to sing in the key of misanthropy.

It shouldn’t be like this. The more you try to grasp the laws that you’ve been studying for the last five years, the more reality slips away from your fingers. No, you don’t look as young as you used to, and no, you’re not as beautiful as you once were. A look in the mirror will only tell you what you already know – your past was the better thing that has come out of you, but it’s not who you are anymore. And still, you were never those hands who healed humanity, you were not the symphonies that everyone would always recall.

Do you even remember all those things you’ve broken? As you approach you fantasies, you travel guilt-free, blessedly forgetful of the hearts you tore apart while you stayed in this existence. But that was once your tragedy, and you should have remembered by now, all those hands you refused are a shared part of your everything, and not of your solipsistic mind.

Fathers shouldn’t bury their own children. A million deaths fall on the transience of collective memory – only to be flooded by the mass delusion of sadistic overpowering. It will one day mean something, but it will burn into your skin, forcing you to look back and regret how you neglected to connect with the spirits surrounding you.

So, what have you done by now?

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