I swear I could type a thousand, hundred thousand words, and it would do nothing to fill the void that is in me. I could type a million different ways, from different perspectives, languages, grammatic structures, etc. And it would not even glance the immovable, immensely dense darkness that swirls me in its tightening grasp like a black hole. It must relish in the conviction of the assured fate that awaits me.
I hate this pointless existence. I hate, knowing that my hate, itself, is a fallow, shallow reflection of the empty void that encompasses all we are. I have nothing, I am nothing, and no matter what I feel or say or what seemingly life-changing revelation may shake me from my morbidity, it will remain. And wait. With the absolute certainty of the ground looking up at the sky. Knowing soon, sometime, all will fall. It is only a matter of time.
If Copernicus, Tesla, or Hendrix had blogs... err... the faint shadows of their blogs caught in a blast of cold wind might resemble what is presented in this Tome o' Darkness xD
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