A maddening proof of apoplexy pours into the chalice of my shitty existence,
Spilling right through the clouds that only now realize they're not solid.
The fucking procrustean nature of physical law makes all being look futile.
This futility being the bastard product of Purpose!
Ah, but what of Purpose? Does not the symphony he orchestrates bore him?
What are HIS dreams? HIS Purpose? We're being led by a sophist.
Who gives meaning while defying definition!
Leave me alone, while I replace all my windows with mirrors!