Shake Your Fist All You Want But

All They Get Around Here Is Stories. Stories Don't Make You Bleed. Stories Don't Make You Go Hungry, Don't Give You Sore Feet. When You're Young Smelling Of Pigshit And Convinced There Ain't A Weapon In All The Damn World That's Going To Hurt You, All Stories Do Is Make You Want To Be Part Of Them.

Gods, I Wish The World Was Full Of Passive Women.he Thougt For A Moment Longer, Then Scowled. On Second Thoughts, What A Nightmare That'd Be. It's The Job Of A Man To Fan The Spark Into Flames, Not Quench It.

More Than One Philosopher Has Claimed That We Ever Remain Children, Far Beneath The Indurated Layers That Make Up The Armour Of Adulthood. Armour Encumbers, Restricts The Body And Soul Within It. But It Also Protects. Blows Are Blunted. Feelings Lose Their Edge, Leaving Us To Suffer Naught But A Plague Of Bruises, And, After A Time, Bruises Fade.

A Celebration Of Insignificance, Is That All We Are In The End? And One Day I’ll Just Be One More Of Those Faces, Frozen In Death And Wonder

The Stars, They Are As The Sun. Each Star. Every Star. And Those Spheres- They Are Worlds, Realms, Each One Different Yet The Same.