Frictional Fiction

The art of rendition is premature and only semi conventional, every aspect deeper than the touch of time, space and every caricature inside the marriage of a mindless infrastructure. All pointing at the same construct that differentiates the fiber of belonging within existence and consolidating the emptiness that fixed the leaves gravitational fall. The daunting wall to walk endearingly towards, primes the priding fame that proliferates a canny transliteration between conceptual imagery and conducive literacy, a grace withheld effortless in sullen solace. The heiress fairing the gentle interest of interstellar inner conflict, shadowing the mark left from the spark that grew too large however suddenly falling short, as quick as the direction of change.

The mother of all that respires would confess to wanting nothing less than selflessness. Though the thought of acquiring such a characteristic would more appropriately defer their recollection to a time when they were not thought of before the last of which. Altering the end compulsion of greed to the deed that was no more their control than the precipitation that dampened the echo of impractical accompaniment. Deflect, retract or interject some sort of strange deranged brain addled fixture, the path may be situated nearer the final event horizon, but there is no escape from the lineage deduction that eventually all matter must be consumed. In your lifetime or the next, the best of the rest will still be nothing more than mulled atomic materials once again spread across an atrium that requires barely an observation to know you will not be aware.

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