Look inwards.
A pattern squeals and scurries pathetically on a sea of gastric fluid.
Your pitiful consciousness drowns inside your own rotting stomach, a languor overcoming the gossamer-lined pit of your ego.
You try to wake up, to walk through the numbness that mists your sorry mindscape, but you were never very good at freedom, were you?
A bile-bloated corpse could never be good at anything, much less at achieving a semblance of life.
Who are you trying to convince? Feast-for-flies, wealth-upon-worms; a philosophical zombie, minus philosophy, plus pretensions.
Look inwards.
Do you see any qualia? Any sign of life in there?
Take every piece of your history. Take every piece of your one-scene ethos. Take every peace you can find, since you're at it.
A bijection, action-reaction, cause-consequence. Sequential, bidimensional putrefaction.
Look inwards, at an enantiomorphic failure. Heaven to Gehenna, blood/life to purge-fluid.
A perfect machine for decomposition, turning hallows to hell.
You had everything.
You have nothing.
Who's at fault here?
Look inwards.
Who's at fault here?
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