/lit/ - Literature

>>4148782
The poor author cannot make you understand. You come to it by yourself, the end of a clearing, a dusty road, a love you never wish to forget. The handwritten note or letter from them that you cherish will bring you to understanding faster. No one sleeps in the jungle, anymore, O wealthy nation, so do not claim ignorance. Take your pox-riddled blankets and suckle to a mother you do not claim. It is that very void that defines you and you allow it. By the hells, you celebrate and revel in it! The gods you have created are dead in my eyes, their Mount Olympus deserted and unhallowed. The hierarchies of substance you cannot prove exists. Is the mind a torment? Do you have the capability to answer such a question?

Our Freud is dead! Long live Freud!

The author is dying as are you, right now. The cells strive to promulgate over the force of entropy that started when you were but a gamete.

We die crying others names, crying out for leniency, redemption. The black smoke chokes the sky while you breathe your last. Consciousness descends, falling on gold, diamond dusting your brow.
Thank you for you input.