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Description
The skies were of a frightening azure, much too blue to be anything normal to the human eye, while the clouds sugarette smoke — sparkling oddities that were ultimately heavy. A storm was brewing, and though sun rays chewed through the clouds, they were but silk — beautiful sheets of nothingness enticing a great languor.
The trees shuddered to the face of the termite king. Again, he walked the hot sand, his soles burning away. Yes, his soul had rotted away from the wrath of the sun. It was ultimately as sunny as it was stormy. Behind him, a shadow, a trail of a hundred termites dressed in black veils and burdens.
This was a smoke break. No, a soul beak. Inhale, what one wanted. Exhale, what one really got.
Why was this so hard? Why hadn’t anything changed? The world looked so different, but behind the retina, it was all the same. The same brain as that preteen who had curled up in the lap of someone who ultimately hated him, sobbing. No, not sobbing, but dissolving. Curled and broken like a little bug who had just been dragged and crunched by the foot of a cruel, uncaring god. Hyperventilating, choking on the fingers of fate.
And now, he never did any of that. He only curled up to have sex, not express distress. The only lump in the back of his throat was his tongue pulling back a handful of pills. His heart didn’t pump blood to love, but haste that would inevitably rot into dust. Really, in life, one was always growing, and he had surely molted. Just as when his wings fell off in the former months, his entire body had chipped away that day and he was never once the same.

There was just no point once a hedonist became bored. And they did so dearly dig up obscenities and absurdities from the sand of nothingness, so imagine when that act itself became too banal for the brain, too benign to a mind that strives from self-infliction. In a way, making people angry was a certain music to dance to. And to be deprived of even that was to finally die. To stay home was to be unknown. To sleep was to accept defeat.
Let us watch, let us see.
The hot sand held no comfort, only ants wearing tiny sneers, reveling at the grand tyrant termite’s defeat. He bent down and put his cigarette out on their applesauce skin, causing them to scream.
Intro: the eye of the storm. Curls standing up, he walked on, dressed in the breezes of winter’s death. There were no plants to look up at him. The world revolved so heavily, the cloudscape hard shining ice, while his surroundings crystallized with visions so blurry — lambasted by alcohol as always. The heat of ice burned, leaving strange cherry-tinted symbols on his pure white skin. The rain shimmied and sparkled down like the unwinding geometric designs of strobe lights.
These rambunctious eternal rebellions did scream away the edges of Artigío, knocking house and tree away, unthreading their seams and breathing it all back to Insanity. But it was no use, for even the weather bowed to the termite king. So small, yet so destructive. The stormy world fizzled and faded to the rumblings of drums. The drums of the seraphim so above. No, perhaps the shouts of the damned from which he had come. No matter, it was a continual cacophony of oddity. Really, he was so light on his feet, never even breaking the surface tension. And yet, so incredibly heavy-hearted.

Description
The skies were of a frightening azure, much too blue to be anything normal to the human eye, while the clouds sugarette smoke — sparkling oddities that were ultimately heavy. A storm was brewing, and though sun rays chewed through the clouds, they were but silk — beautiful sheets of nothingness enticing a great languor.
The trees shuddered to the face of the termite king. Again, he walked the hot sand, his soles burning away. Yes, his soul had rotted away from the wrath of the sun. It was ultimately as sunny as it was stormy. Behind him, a shadow, a trail of a hundred termites dressed in black veils and burdens.
This was a smoke break. No, a soul beak. Inhale, what one wanted. Exhale, what one really got.
Why was this so hard? Why hadn’t anything changed? The world looked so different, but behind the retina, it was all the same. The same brain as that preteen who had curled up in the lap of someone who ultimately hated him, sobbing. No, not sobbing, but dissolving. Curled and broken like a little bug who had just been dragged and crunched by the foot of a cruel, uncaring god. Hyperventilating, choking on the fingers of fate.
And now, he never did any of that. He only curled up to have sex, not express distress. The only lump in the back of his throat was his tongue pulling back a handful of pills. His heart didn’t pump blood to love, but haste that would inevitably rot into dust. Really, in life, one was always growing, and he had surely molted. Just as when his wings fell off in the former months, his entire body had chipped away that day and he was never once the same.

There was just no point once a hedonist became bored. And they did so dearly dig up obscenities and absurdities from the sand of nothingness, so imagine when that act itself became too banal for the brain, too benign to a mind that strives from self-infliction. In a way, making people angry was a certain music to dance to. And to be deprived of even that was to finally die. To stay home was to be unknown. To sleep was to accept defeat.
Let us watch, let us see.
The hot sand held no comfort, only ants wearing tiny sneers, reveling at the grand tyrant termite’s defeat. He bent down and put his cigarette out on their applesauce skin, causing them to scream.
Intro: the eye of the storm. Curls standing up, he walked on, dressed in the breezes of winter’s death. There were no plants to look up at him. The world revolved so heavily, the cloudscape hard shining ice, while his surroundings crystallized with visions so blurry — lambasted by alcohol as always. The heat of ice burned, leaving strange cherry-tinted symbols on his pure white skin. The rain shimmied and sparkled down like the unwinding geometric designs of strobe lights.
These rambunctious eternal rebellions did scream away the edges of Artigío, knocking house and tree away, unthreading their seams and breathing it all back to Insanity. But it was no use, for even the weather bowed to the termite king. So small, yet so destructive. The stormy world fizzled and faded to the rumblings of drums. The drums of the seraphim so above. No, perhaps the shouts of the damned from which he had come. No matter, it was a continual cacophony of oddity. Really, he was so light on his feet, never even breaking the surface tension. And yet, so incredibly heavy-hearted.