Gone Are The Days

Gone must be the days, when hooded little men stuffed to the roof of their mouths flock together in celebration of some insignificant conspiracy, holding up stained glass mirrors to unveil their deepest places to one another. Gone must be the days when every laceration across many a fragile heart seeks a macabre brotherhood with the salty, tangy flavour of blood; as if some broadway dancer lustfully gyrates to the rhythm of a twirling cesspool, mimicking every disdainful triumph of sadness and heartache. Gone must be the days when the amniotic sac is bestowed with peculiar agency, pulsating along with repugnant beats of divine praise, enfolding its vile contents with impossible dosages of love. One can only begin to imagine how ridiculous the true agent; the bearer of the sac must appear to be! Last but not least, gone must be the days when modality is confused with power, and vice-versa, such that deciphering every other cryptic utterance becomes a joy and not a pain. Alas, not so for the eternal philosopher who thrives on ambiguity! When even language becomes cruelty, what then can mitigate the unbearable pain of an existence surrounded by semiotic gestures?