Minerva

This absurd anarchy prevails. When Idle, we collide. Destitute and empty And we come here to devour. To discern This excruciating Karma. It is what it is, isn't it? Just a maelstrom of Programmed obsolescence. We are utterly alone. We are wretched. I still write poetry because shit like Stinkfist exists, and I want to... Continue Reading →

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