The armours we wear are not gilded. Polished metal could never make for the strength that is required to step in arenas we know as playgrounds.Rusted iron, with chinks welded in repair. Edges worn , cutting through those who rub against at the slightest possibility, not just of a conflict but of a proximity too uncomfortable to leave to chances.Loath the fact that out of our playgrounds the armours are still riveted not to bodysuits but to our own bodies.
Our inseparable molds that would break with the contents that fill them. Paranoid we are! Paranoid we will be! Untangling and tangling what lies ahead,taking everything by the violence of our passions, weaving and then knotting the threads when they lie still as prospects.
Only the Paranoid Survives.
How does the Paranoid sustain?
Our inseparable molds that would break with the contents that fill them. Paranoid we are! Paranoid we will be! Untangling and tangling what lies ahead,taking everything by the violence of our passions, weaving and then knotting the threads when they lie still as prospects.
Only the Paranoid Survives.
How does the Paranoid sustain?
Wow... you end it with a question that turned my theories on their head
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