O ye Porcelain God
Contributed by Emily Hoover | firstname.lastname@example.org
I scrape the circumference of my brain. My acquired knowledge has been encoded and stored. I cannot seem to retrieve the debris from the plastic bag. The stationary monument remains that way. There is no life between the crooked, warped lines.
The colors, as vibrant as they may have been, have all been spray-painted black. The gray area that once was has dwindled with sensational decadence.
In the distance, I am perturbed, for the government has disturbed my atmosphere. The aerials circle my neighborhood as the engine ravages any creativity I may have attained. The writing process seems quite tedious. Futility plagues my orderly-functioning brain. Beware the panopticon!
The images, as vibrant as they may have been, have transmuted into illusions with no meaning or direction. The flashes of enlightenment that once refueled this perpetual battle field have dwindled with sensational decadence.
Their muse is an illusion, a creation by a lonely God. I can smell the decomposition from way over here. Everything slowly biodegrades into the earth that I have created and into the water that I have walked upon.
The theology, as vibrant as it may have been, has terminated. The modem no longer works. Help me, William Shatner!