(Please note that this text was intended to look much like a big block. Thank you.)

Meaningless

In forever meaning nothingness the depths of the soul reflect like beautiful gems sparkling in the radiant light of the ever glowing celestial body floating above us high in the sky always looking down upon its humble subjects laying down low on the ground accepting the inevitability of the pure inclinations of the vicious rumours spread by the demons awaiting us all in the pit of despair where angels sing and scream in terror to make us see the malicious grand scheme in which the world plays like a finger-puppet on a string hung from an old willow tree which stands on the bank of a river which in turn runs through twin hills over the brows of which the first rays of light can just be seen showing us that yet another begin could be upon the new world and a dream may be dreamt again in the silence of your mind contrary to the ideals of narrow minded bodily leaders that state that the only heaven holds nine figures and that a pure melody should not be danced to because this would prove that you have a potential urge to stray from the righteous path to the land in which only innocence lives since no one there feels the urge to tread upon the fragile wheels of the manmade invention of time but the management of this little play would like to use this brief intermezzo to express its gratitude for your persistence in reading the explosive truths brought to you by a mere weak minded expressionist and which seem so nauseatingly sleep inducing that there is only a limited number of options still open to negotiation since there is no other use for these insane discussions by a convention of seemingly underappreciated musicians that consider themselves the saviours of the new world order and attempt to subjugate the populace with a mere microphone by preaching from a stage which resembles the lucid location called speakers corner that actively has no bearing on reality whatsoever but which is sadly mistaken for the absolute road of Christianity and Buddhism by again the same misguided poet that wrote the unforgettable verse in yesterday’s tabloids which are on discount sale now at the local store for household appliances for a mere weeks pay and still the young idealists sit around and wonder where in their life the one wrong step was they took that seemingly terminated the comfortable living situation in which they found themselves and plunged them headfirst into a barrel filled with shards of glass and rusty nails that touch the tips of aids ridden needles with which a small kindergarten has just been eradicated by a group of left-wing extremists while the fallen angel sits beneath the old oak tree and ponders how meaningless this universe is and why no one has ever thought of a purpose for it.