What do I do?

What do I do right? I never do anything right. I am wasted hope. I am the cleansing soap on a rope. You’re all prisoners of your mind, and I am your warden. I give you a way to clean yourself, and that shit is slippery, no one can hold on to it to save their lives.

And because everyone wants to fill holes, you try to pick up the thing you dropped? You’re going to get arse raped.

Life isn’t fair. Death is the only escape. Because it at least is honest.

It’s just an escape. It tells you nothing about what to expect on the other side.

Death is silent. It is hard. It is bone. Porous. It provides structure. It is the skeleton you all have in your bodies that hold you up. Without your skeleton, you’d all be useless flesh blobs.. like breasts or testicles. Fun balls but sensitive and tender. Useless against the hard cruel reality of life.

But life likes to play. So… Whatever.

It’s all just a fucking metaphor.