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Tuesday, November 18, 2014

As sharp as swords...

It's a heavy night. Almost as heavy as the machines I feel falling on my weak body. In this dump that is a dead industrial city in a deranged and forgotten world, our Danube is so saturated it can't wash away our sins anymore. A stagnant remote land of loneliness, pain and tiredness...where saints lie on crucifixes made of words as sharp as swords. Our toxic red night sky is proof enough that blood is spilled here every day. The blood of the innocent, the blood of fallen angels that took this path to save us, only to find their sacrifice was for nothing. For they have come too late. It was too late since the beginning...this world is asymmetric.  Created by two gods that decided it would be fun to play this game. We mash up, and crumble one against each other, with no one to pick up the pieces and put them back together. We are mirrors...endless in numbers. With nothing to reflect but ourselves. And this machine is crushing my bones and spirit every night. Every day. Every moment of every hour. And the thing about machines is...they do not stop. They are not impressed by cries, or threats, by morals or guns. You can ask nicely, but they will ignore. They do what they must do, without remorse or question. Unstoppable. Rain falls, and it feels like acid. The wind is cold and there are no lights to guide me. Only the red sky...proof that we shot our saints. Soon...white pieces of frozen feathers will fall, for we have destroyed our angels too. We call them snowflakes. What an innocent word. But sharp...as a sword.