Shook Ones Night Blind
Growth be damned, I can't understand this impulse for always feeding. Sight be damned, I am unconvinced that this growth is benign. From what I see, feasts won't cure maladies of pride alone. We are the engineers of this mass of bolts and gears. A winged machine beyond control and hope won't steer this mess around much longer. Wax is dripping from the wings. From what I see, feats can't cure maladies that we've designed. From what I see, feats won't fill this cup that's never full. God damn this fools drive: the hunger for what we can't hold. Like sand through fingers bemoaned. From what I see, feasts won't cure the woes of the needs we've self-incurred. Loath the cup that's never full. From what I see, feats can't cure maladies that we have born. God damn this drive of man. It takes decay to realize what we had. The greenest greens you've ever seen traded for the shades of brown
