49.

This chaos is the only order I think I’ll ever accept.

For it’s honest in its brutality and in the moment we exist in, the only moment we exist in, it is pure truth.

There’s nothing more than chaos. Anything else disguised as order is simply lies. We control nothing because all is at the mercy of indiscriminate, merciless and invincible time.

These thoughts deafen me every morning and leave only in sleep. At least they are silenced then. I’m sure they still percolate, unregulated and unchecked, reminding my subconscious of how little I matter to it.

This world is simply melting, and we are dripping slowly off its surface. A conveyor belt of hope turning to despair like clockwork. But don’t be fooled by the tone. This isn’t a somber reflection on mortality. It’s simply an attempt to touch the surface of the ground I’ve not yet landed on. Not yet felt beneath the feet of my art.

There’s more to what I’ve gathered together. It’s just scattered. In chaos. I have to find it all.

I just don’t have time.

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