Mundane trite

New Injection — The Art of Making Spirals

I break you down when I set you up affix your head to the upcoming fix I drag you down when I lift you up you want this you want bliss “You make me crawl when you help me fly your ground is always my open sky you see through me when I look in […]

via New Injection — The Art of Making Spirals

I posted about The Whippoorwills being god, their ability to weave words into worlds. This Spiral Artist is.. their herald. I don’t know. The real metatron (I’m just a mechatron).

You think I’m good? I’m a fucking farce. I’m a satirist.. I’m a satyr in this digital domain of the divine. I’m a damn “scientist” who does not even really know how to science. I just know how to destroy and defile and degrade and beguile the worst possible shit into neat little boxes. Give me a container, and I can fill it with goo and shake it up and mesmerise you. It is nothing, absolutely nothing in comparison to the people who actually own their right to call themselves wordsmiths.

You’re a joke, I’m a jester, and these guys? They’re the jewels. There’s nothing divine about myself, I’m a mundane material. Nothing ever more, only ever less.

So while we wage our petty little war, how about we take a knee and pray to the gods for our souls to bless?

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