Through a loud disassociation, you have become the familiar curmudgeon you were before. Gliding over the dirt, you listen to the rotten who claim to see all. The rotten chant an ancient adage which shoves you forward into the mud. Primal instinct forces your body upward to survive. A seemingly delightful notion to bring up the muddy natives expands outward, and you call them your fucking friends. Unanimously bemoaning about reconciliation of stability, the group swallows it all in different states of consciousness. Passed out, the rotten mock you with laughter, recalling their similar youth-hood. After time, you and the muddy natives continue this cycle, and induce it all by whoring yourselves. There is no reversion now. You are drunk and filthy with no oasis in sight.
Approaching death, you are now rotten, face down, as you were previously, in the mud. My foot meets the back of your bald head, and I continue with my life unaware of the mask you once wore. I am clean and enlightened, never to follow that shitty, rotten, and delusional path.
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