The empty streets under his feet were once
vibrant little desire lines, and its waste still
crunches under his feet. What survives of this
civilization, or at least what he believed was
civilization? Everything must decay into plastic,
into anonymous atoms; what a horrific fate. He had
only begun, and already felt himself to be dying.
The aching weeds shivered in the icy winds.
amor fati If he was a stronger man, he
could face the chill of his dead corpse with some
resemblance of bravery. What did bravery look
like? In his games, death was simply a slight
consequence of a mistake, a mistake that could be
absolved simply with time. But that's why they're
only games, inverse pictures made to give the
illusion that nature was something one might win
supremacy over. He bites into the Pueblo Express
burrito. The sourness of the cream nauseates him.
Chunks of rice, of burnt tomato, emaciated chicken
pieces copulated and tunneled through his
digestive system, sending fizzle up his guts. He
feels the terrible tremble of a malevolent force
burbling in his stomach, like Kali himself running
a sword through his esophagus. It's bleeding into
his veins, until he's unsure where the blood ends
and the bile & shit begins.

He makes his way back to his father's home
through the dusty catacombs of suburban streets,
hidden by the shadows of the convenience stores &
gas stations. Icons of sin glittered in his
visions; the sea shells, the arches & shiny neon,
ropes of bondage made of entwining colored light.
They dwell far above you, like mountainous
monuments, far beyond your touch so it may
transcend the petty struggles of man. The
landscape repeats itself endless into the horizon,
identical franchises reproducing like cancerous
cells; anonymous, this is life reduced to the
anonymous.

-- Unknown Author