Kropotkin

There’s something oily, a dirty acclamation of old sigils that’s marking me, recreant from thy very existence. I must declare I coexist with a yearning for curiosity of my surroundings. Under the skirt of every rat lies most wondrous ponderous item where my curiosity solves my mind to exceptions. I’m certainly addicted to my own personal ego mutual aid and sadistically I spill grief for such. A spew, a spit in the face against myself; adorable. Surrendering my only comfort, I strive disoriented and seemingly lost in a cave. Miles and miles forth towards something advocate to abolition of volition. In a cosmic melting bolt, I believe, none disoriented should be judged. Stand on the altar, dizzy and furious, searching through my pants for an application to hand in just for that disoriented moment in time. Time, that traitor, on the other hand conspicuously mastered me in out of line yesterday night to replace my duvet against the empty list. Accordingly to the meltdown I’ve heard rumours about monsters under glorious bed…ings and every closet is left alone without no one to hug. So this evening I’ve trembled through different planar worthy and with criteria for an asylum. Speak my riddles and conserve me from suffering and hand me people in distress which I’ll consume in my moreover dizziness.

Every mountain has its peak, even if it lies in the middle of Russia. Bureaucracy adorns a kingdom in hand. And world is punished for its ecosystem.