What is life, but an empty chasm?
It’s a senseless void echoing indistinguishable sounds that arm us with illusions.
We march forth hungry for answers never found.
The tyrant struggle for dominion of the self never ceasing and ever growing.
All too easily ripe for disillusionment yet plagued by denial.
A rotting crop, in a fictional reality, cloaked with memories of things not being, looking to fill a ceaseless chasm.
What is life, But the ramblings of perception.
The semi-sentient perception of my perception is but an echo.