The unveiled truth –– what an irony

Saturday 5 September 2015

Empty Shells

In the silence of the night, the uneven chugging of trains quietly interjecting, you touch your fingers to the sky. Your thoughts speak only in grayscale, whispering, to blend into the picture of heavy tranquility. For even thoughts are much too loud. So you drown it all, place an unyielding hand on their struggling voices, take away their consciousness. It's better this way, always better this way. Better to feel and not think. Emotions without thought, without form.

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