the game
the minor accents that flourish in these days of the miserable are indeed the pounding and hitting of the lost life’s misery. i can take that pain and turn it around and put the shapes that i produce inside of my brain without honor or remorse. i can maintain pride in the face of suffering and can feel ashamed in the love of my brother. but not allowed to express a whimper of emotion, not allowed to suffer the charms of the outside world, there is not love here, but merely a dictatorship of silence, a mortuary of lost and displaced innocence, the infantile charm of childhood laid bare for the disturbed.
