Originally Posted by kinnikpasswordforgetter

geniteele, when you were young and you could actually feel something from music and life, did you plan to end up like this? because honestly i dont think you did, you're just such an obese talentless layabot you pissed your life away in the shadow of other peoples glory, living off rushes of narcissism about all the things you were going to do and going to be. and look at the repugnant monster that stands before you in the mirror. was this doom and utter defeat part of the plan? was this grisly descent into mediocrity and irrelevance something your younger self could have lived with? i don't think it was. at what point did you give up genteel? at what point did you have such reserves of solipsistic idiocy you could just sit and fiddle each day away in a lonely daze?

at what point did you lose any remotely appealing characteristic and just become this soiled suppository of broken dreams and saturated fats? at what point did the familiar stench of sweat mould and anal itching become part of the decor? at what point did you give up on the external world, and settle into a long, pointless wait for death. trudging each day to the shop to buy more junk to stuff your gawping jowls with as the low hum of the computer monitor lulled you into a deep smelly trance? at what point did the voices in your head provide you with enough company to neglect the real world? at what point did you become satisfied with the deluded and demented minefield of your own imagination taking the place of all those magical things you were going to do? at what point could you no longer do anything but dull the awareness of the rancid mire you inhabited with hefty globs of chocolate and crisps? at what point did it all turn from gold to shit?

Originally Posted by Nefeli

goodmorning.
the back of my feet are the colour of the rust.

Originally Posted by kinnikpasswordforgetter

is this the legacy you want to leave to the world geniteele? when they scrape your putrid remains from your bed, when the biohazard teams scoop the liquifying gloop into their sterilized sacks, will there be nothing you have accomplished? noone to remember you, no great statements or artworks or contributions to the world? not even any loved ones to speak fondly of your compassionate grace?

not even a notable occupation to put on your obituary? (if you were to have one that is, which you won't). just another life come to nothing. a forgotten non player in histories long march. someone who came, took, gave nothing in return, and had nothing to say about it. will the earth itself recieve you with any great applause? will it say, there was a man who roared upon me, irrepressible, plunging down into the sheer fathoms of mystery and wonder of his consciousness and of my myriad magnificiences? no. it won't. you will just rot, having taken the route of least resistance. having ended up so pointless and immaterial to any great cause or effort, as to become an aching mechanistic burden upon yourself to even maintain. there will be no great fear or joy or madness or intensity in your demise. it will just be the empty shuffling off of someone too lazy and morose to even summon the muster to quiver at the aeons of nothingness that await it. someone whose mind maybe once stood in awe at the majesty of the world, but soon settled into a turgid appreciation of its own bowel movements. of someone whose mediocrity was so total, so glaringly everpresent, it could only render him into a dumb silence. a silence in which his withering brain settled, until it had wasted and declined into the mere automaton motor of a pork scratching feulled slug. and this, your epitaph... was it always going to end up this way?

Originally Posted by Nefeli

Originally Posted by Pookie

Everywhere.