Nothing is everywhere. It burns like fire: surrounding you, licking your skin, leaving you scorched. For some reason you can't seem to escape the crippling ennui, the yellowed white walls, the painstaking routine. Attributed with comfortablity, safety, and loss of purpose.You know it yet you will not purge it. After all, an act such as that carries presumptuous futility, foreboding failure.
Does the sight of your now charred skin irk you at all? You answer me not, surely it must be the heat that makes you so despondent and dejected.
A victim of one's own mind, belittling itself into inferior intelligence and opportunity. The inability to see anything in everything is a sort of death. The death of stimulation. Scorched skin never feels the same again if ever at all.
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-Confucius had his Analects and I have my journal-
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Idiosyncratic Quirk
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