Pain is the great sculptor which makes us who we are.
It moulds and shapes a shell around our backs, enabling us to cope when the perfect is suddenly found to be imperfect, when the truths we've been lead to believe are stripped away, revealing the foundation of lies that dwells beneath them.
All it asks in return is the pleasure of physical control, dictating when we sit, when we stand, how often we fall, how fiercely we bleed, how loudly we scream.

We've sold our souls for the privilege of knowing the world we live in is a barbaric wasteland that cuts through dreams like stalks of wheat.
17.8.06 23:20

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