Edinburgh │ 18 December 2017

There is no answer for anything of uneventful relativity.

We waste our moments, pushing a ball of dung up a hill.

How happily we engage in the demolition of the senses, almost as if we wish to forget who we are.

And never be remembered.


At this point, we have a tonal mix of dire consequences.

We have colours that obfuscate our understanding of reality so that, in effect, we live in a dream.

We have the hibernation of our sensibilities.

We have a characteristic absence of feeling.

We live in the darkest part of the world’s seasonal adjustment disorder.

Our emotions are a reflection of the external appearances they claim as their own.

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