Guest Vocals by: Haagr, courtesy of Lake Of Blood
They remain entwined upon the shimmering, rhythmic lands of rich green, potted trees and sculpted grass. Marveling at the efficiency of the mass produced price tags they have systematically placed upon natures riches. Their undoubtedly vital past depressions, birthed within the abysmal ground upon which "civilization" finds its footing. Incarcerated by natural forces, and subconsciously knowing this irrefutable certainty, they seemingly are devoid of humorous expression. Dwindling about the consummate, unmistakably transcendent rifts they've managed to manifest within the dimensions of space and time. And yet basking in their leather, reclining appliances; that could so easily be referred to as their kingdoms of illiteracy, they remain dancing in solitude while the cosmic winds journey through the suburban dreamscapes reflected upon their television screens. Living quarters are managed and provided, envisioned and fabricated in the fashion of Tom's Cabin, while they clutch their self-imposed certainties like tissue to muscle and cartilage. So they walk about their conveniently paved sidewalks, transfixed by the bold-print text imprinted upon their ashen, archetypal brochures in which paragraphs of treacherous realities are contained. Little did the cowardice clones realize their contradicting upheaval of self-imposed purpose and realistic purpose commenced the self-willed creation of the ultimate existential paradox.
In concept this metaphysical creation, this ultimate contradiction of rational being transcends mere ideas and manifests itself to consume and reduce all that is, and simply all that ever was. This immeasurable reduction uplifts all to a higher state of presence, that of annihilation. For it is an untimely God among a world of false ideals and irrational, conceptual demigods that insists upon the creation of itself to swallow and engulf all illusions of being. A cosmic gorge of uncontrollable, uncontaminated nothingness feasting upon the empires of Earth's pestilent, plague barren atmosphere. The cry of its Event Horizon, ever expanding, ever imploding, an absurdity within itself.
The clones gaze at their emptied skyscapes searching for something amidst the nothing they've created, searching for meaning within the emptiness of space and time, reaching, and grasping, and hoping. Their inaudible whimpers and shrieks echo throughout oblivion as their self-imposed apocalyptic visionary reduces them all to infinite zero.
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