How can one human being contort their bleak spirits into blazing specimen of lascviatiousness?
Staring into a tiny crypt in the wall,
it appearing as if blinking from unltra violet to black at a quick pulsation,
the prowess beauty of human's intimate relationship with anatomy...
How can one tiny,
seemingly meaningless memory result to all of this highly emancipating thought?
But here's one thing,
what is to happen to great works,
after their creators have perished?
does all the work fade,
with the soul?
Or REBORN into a creation of new,
resurected from the depths of their creators clutches
and released from their own Hell,
we will be brought back one day
when the Earth is gone and all that remains is a sea of rocks
sailing weightlessly in a dark void of nonchalance space,
our spirits are ETERNAL
and our energy will NOT
and will especially
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