fut

lacking in title, overripe with pretense.

i hear songs in my head, beautiful moving pieces that guide and distort my reality and prevent me from 

moving.

moving.

i don't want and can't let myself become these robe crusted burrowers bitterly typing jaded nonsense into oblivion.

and i can't let the golden lights sear genius into my skin with their admiration and false godhood.

i once was peaceful, but now the world has grasped hold once again.

no more the mage, once again the student. i must reach that peak once more. lest i let the demon, genesis, rise again.