Your inaction is a meager breath, A vestige of inertia in an ambiguous roar. You believe your airtightness grants you consistency, But your anatomy is merely the symptom of their presence. No greater futility than this isolation, When your mimicry is the consumption of the moment. They are the breath of your own asphyxia, The viscous amalgam demanding justice. Your opacity is their best consistency, Scrape the floor until its essence bleeds. Nothing is intrinsic, everything is adjacent, A signal of abjection dictating the present. You watch the entropy seeking an epicenter, While dissonance rots from within. Not heretical, merely a contingency, The residue of an ignominy without cure or patience. Your delirium of being unique is their greatest victory, A sterile friction at the edge of their history. Your epidermis is a sieve that fails to filter, An osmosis of abjection that the present administers. You are the pustule of a mass that ignores you, The open wound that their entropy devours. Inherent. Meager. Your pulse is the residue of an ancient breath. No ownership, Only contingency. Close your mouth, feel the asphyxia. The embers are their anatomy. You are merely... Adjacent. Music and lyrics by No7D (c)
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