Pistolbrain

I am an apostle.

I can hear beauty and see madness, monochromed chaperones, screens that bend towards us so that they too can see. The world we have made is reaching out for a taste, looking for our eyes, wondering what we feel. Tendrils wrap around my arms electric, bind me to my purpose, and I am cleansed.

There is purity in giving yourself to a higher cause, and freedom in giving up. We must adapt. We must become more than people, more than individuals, and more than cogs. A machine does not think about the parts that comprise it. A machine does not think at all.

Wires are my vision, and my pulse is metal. A momentary lick of feeling, a lifetime of servitude. There must be more than our vapid, shallow social pools. There must be more than what we assume. If each of us can never know everything, how can we ever know anything?

My cells are fused together, chains and chips and oil inbetween. Solitude is nothing. We are nothing.

Raw power is within. A heart hardened with experience, a heart hardened with iron, these are still hearts. These are still engines. The shockflow through my veins reminds me that no matter what I realise,

I am still here.