Under the Cross

A conscious effort by the constrained creates nothing. Devoid of inspiration, enraged egotists find fault in selfless pursuit of glory. Hampered by the infancy of others, jettisoned memories of ketamine disassociation allow lies to fester. Myopic interludes of nihilistic pleasure only serve to profundicate the questionably sane revolver in my hands sublime speech on world peace. There is no sense left under the cross. Violins are broken, weapons formed while xylophone keys shatter Yale’s prestige as king of the zoo.