Lost childhood, eating the metaphorical apple of consciousness. Taking the red pill, waking to the dawn of a cold barren existence...These objects/concepts they give me no substance.
My own created love turns traitorously against the heart which created it. We interact with senses of empathy, comradeship only as far as ensuring comfort, or suppressing suspicion.
Import and meaning are the coloured lenses in which we peer through life.
I feed this organic machinery; It wants to live. On some abstract level discerning only, that it is necessary.
I observe remotely from my tower, somewhat detached and resentful.
I am the depths of nausea and the presence of inertia.
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