“Certainty,” we are told, “is a luxury granted to few through instruction.” Nothing has ever been sacred, holy, set apart. Never. Spoon-fed, force-fed watered down “wisdom” espousing the status quo. I only exist as I am rendered; apostate, shaped in the eyes of tradition as little more than the yield of misgivings. This system: “blessed,” “edifying,” mocking the worth in words. Is there a shape of failure fitting perfectly to form? This soil is cursed, we continue to sow it. Our bodies have withered in time for the harvest. Is there a shape of failure fitting perfectly to form? Will I mold to your ideals or do I get to keep my own? Why should I gather everything to fill a box of empty space? I'm collapsing as you fill me with your bastard sense of grace. Every fleeting notion is a burden left to bear, an educated filter for breathing stagnant air. We're forgotten, abstraction, novelty, worthless, always imperfect. The death of purpose.Teksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.
