quote:

The (Starting with "This" sounded really awkward. It's one of those words that, except in a rare case, "the" is better 'cause it's less distracting for the reader) city is black. It bleeds of men in suits suffocating themselves within factories- (People who work in factories do not wear suits, especially if they are making little money. Perhaps you meant "uniforms" 'cause suit-people work in offices for the most part) they try to make earn (Your call. I think "earn" is the stronger verb though "make" does seem to flow better) a pretty penny to exchange for another day of famish. They have done no wrong; they are still the worthless equals to the man composed of wealthy greed. Perhaps they don't realize social Darwinism has become a scarce ideal- quit acting as though you still dangle at the whimsy of some strings. I have never once before seen a boy who thought himself a puppet, only the ones unaware that they were. What a masterful art of marionettes.

It gnaws on the inside of me me inside (too needlessly wordy)- I may not pray at my bedside to protect myself from sin, but I know sin exists. It exists just as I do; it's worthless but condemning, a permanent entity that (your call. "that" is more invisible) turns against the blindness of man. Yet (unneeded comma) sin is a very an (very = unnecessary adverb) abstract blemish: it does not affect time, yet all moments are there forth (one word instead? Or "henceforth"? Not certain here) hindered; it cannot touch man, but it throttles his sanity and shoves a gun-barrel down his throat; it would keep men in church on Sunday if only the same men hadn’t burned down the church on Saturday. And now they wonder why damnation breathes down the back of our (more powerful this way) necks. (Not necessary ellipses, in my opinion)

My brother is a man composed of sin and self-deprivation. His mind has been clouded over; a clutter of paranoia and shattered memories is (the noun there isn't the paranoia and memories--that's plural, yes. The noun is "a clutter" which is singular, and that fits in well 'cause window is also singular) the window to his future. Primal genesis exists in many forms, and in each one is it ("it is"? I don't understand) a failure. He is not so much an innocent as he is a cretin- an oaf who stumbles upon his own two feet trying to get somewhere he has no reason to go. The street screams in putrid tongues (Or "a putrid tongue" if you want to keep the singular) as it drowns out all the undesirables; my brother stands with his face pressed up against the glass, curious about ("to" isn't a fitting word, imo) what pain truly feels like. To him, the world is just a blank page in a lengthy novel- and he is left wondering where the story has gone.

He is simply a man relative to myself, and society, in the most miniscule of fashions. He exists for the same reason that I exist, and his scars are derived from the same blade. He must have bled out more. He relished the sugar and sweets, consumed them, and devoured any remnants: just a ravenous child who clutched his heart in his hands and wrung it for the good of man. Now he stands slathered in his own blood; his pockets jingle to the cacophony of his barren wealth. There shall be no love for the damned, nor for the gilded god who leads them.

The streets are bloated with gluttony.


*****

It is a Jungle; it has industrialized itself through revolution and now devours itself and lives forever. Forever. Time scrapes its nails against the back of my mind once again, and all I can do is stare at it (Unnecessary. It's fairly clear what the narrator is staring at) in ambiguity (How do you stare "in ambiguity"? I'd take it out, but your call) like a crippled child bleeding out (just a reminder that you're using a lot of "bleeding/bleeds/bled out" in this chapter. You might wanna try a new desccription here) and anticipating his fate. Conscience is the thin line which separates man from beast, and they no longer give a damn how many steps back they take- bearded with flecks of foam, they continue to praise the universe for how simply they perceive it. Perfection is just a day away, on a bloody Sunday.

Man can learn, but he requires failure and time; however, failure has become an abundant variable that matters so very little, and time itself seems to have become appears (your call, but the original was quite wordy) so scarce that it is too delicate spend on the immaculate failures. Buildings need to crumble, lives are sacrificed, and women are (Since the first part doesn't start with "are", "ares" are needed now 'cause nothing carries over. I know I make no sense. <_<) slaughtered; if people do not blister their feet upon the blacktop in riot, crying out in bloodlust, for the scales of justice to be harmonized, then time will wave failure off into the midst of the universe’s continuum. Revolution is a memorial for only the important of dead; whatever happened to the men in my hot dogs? Oh, that’s right, time forgot them.

It rains once again, and once again (I know it's intentional but it was still awkward) I start the timer. Time flashes before my eyes, and I find that I have no recollection of any of it; one second ago, I had not realized it was one second ago- it was then, it was now: the moment in which all things exist. A minute ago, I would have never presumed that, a minute from then, I would be contemplating that minute. I regret wasting neither that second nor that minute. Hours, days, weeks, so on and so forth, they all hold substance; they all hold memories- mementos of those minutes and seconds which I blatantly ignored. If I could go back, I would never go back to a second or a minute (If you want to keep the "to" you'll need an "ago" right before the semicolon); I would go back to an hour, day, or week to lose my regrets.

I see a fat man scurry his way (very awkward and unnecessary) across the sidewalk; the pouring rain drenches him from head-to-toe. Before he can pass me by, he slows his waddle and turns to face (cleaner, more powerful this way) me. Disgust curls ("raises" doesn't usually indicate disgust as well as "curls" does) his upper lip and he feels reason to compelled walk up to me and remove his coat. Three days earlier, I heard (If it's three days ago, it should be past tense) the voice of a child, and for the first time in over twenty years it was directed at me. Now I sit draped in the coat of a stranger; the intentions are black and white; the ambiguity rests in the unexisting gray- you’d have to be blind not to see it. All men turn black- it’s only a matter of time. But, dare I ask, why? I stop the timer.

There are bodies hitting the pavement all around us, and we can’t see where they hit the ground land (too wordy originally) for the streets are already swathed in corpses. All I (second person was too abrupt) can hear is the thud.

I can feel my brother looking down upon me and trying to squish my head between his thumb and forefinger. For the first time in over twenty years, I look up into the sky, and through the reflection of window-glass, I stare him directly in the eye meet his eyes (originally too awkward and long). He realizes that terrorism works, and knows the country loves him for using it.

I cry.
I look down at my stopwatch.
It reads:
8:09.45
And I smile for the last time:
A meaningful second.


*****

Existence brings with it its own impression upon the world. Some choose to question their own impact, yet they see before themselves the havoc in their wake. Man may choose to bleed himself in order to feel his own existence; I argue, you can bleed and still not exist. If time is being measured correctly, then I currently stand at the threshold of hell. Doors open themselves for a figure draped in rags, and he walks his way (If you really want to use "his way," "make" would be a better verb than "walk") through the valley of flames- the wailing of the damned force him to claw at his ears till he can no longer hear (I personally think it flows better this way). I’m going to bleed the devil and prove his inexistence.

I caress my scars- enflamed, they burn at the touch. Tragedy is exemplified in the hero ignorant of his weakness- that is (more powerful like this, but it's only my opinion) man, he is tragedy. Memories fill my lungs with blood, and breathing is no longer a subconscious second-thought; it is my only task. Concrete is the fact that I shall shatter before I face my brother for the last time. Within hell, I wrought the bleak, I disturbed a twisted paradise- I turn my back and walk out hell’s front door, and it closes itself behind me. Out of the frying pan, into the fire.

A sound of thunder: glass shatters from the building above, and I watch as time weaves the improbable into reality. A small mass of people gather around the building entrance and glare, awestruck, into the clouds. Their arms cringe as they grasp the afternoon mist. Their visions have been blurred, but man relies often on making blatant assumptions of his own his own assumptions. His prejudice drives him to blood-drunk insanity, incapable of practical reasoning. For what reason is there to stare into the eye of god and expose your blackness? You see sacrifice and refuse to stop it before happening; now men throw themselves from buildings and you refuse to shed a tear, just a fraction of your acknowledgement. Rest well, scapegoats, time shall forget your pain.

As I turn away, I hear the sound. Revolution. For a brief moment people believe: revolution. Fascinating and terrifying. Devastating, full of promise and great foreboding. Yet, the promise soon disperses, and I glance back at the corpse splattered upon blacktop. Today, a god died- and society mourns for the corrupt.

At the end of the world, humanity shall see what I have done.

quote:

It begins to rain.

Society, itself, was once perfected- man, however, was insatiable. The American dream was integrated (not sure what you mean here), and the people withered from their core. Animas putrefied. The hearts hallowed; inside could be heard only the faint echoes only faint echoes could be heard inside (your phrasing was really awkward. Mine probably isn't much better, but I didn't dare take any more liberties lest I change the intended meaning), wailing as they dispersed into an utter blackness. Only the shell remained, cold and entertained. (The passage of mainly in past tense referring to this as happening in the past, and you suddenly changed it to present. I corrected the bolded verbs)

Rats scurry at my feet, and at my side individuals far more malevolent and viral. They lecture their children on the practice of self-indulgence, the concept which leads man to the monopoly of putrid (really awkward. "putrid monopoly" would work better). You walk this path your entire life, no matter what kind of man you are; subconsciously, you are forever walking down the path to self-prosperity (doesn't have enough of a negative connotation. Perhaps "selfishness" would make it more impacting. But then again, I think you're implying that man is already self and they're walking /towards/ something here... Hmm, your call). I recall facing the flare of hatred. The judgment passed down by man is the ultimate fate of your destiny- righteously, (weren't you saying it wasn't right all along?) he is the judge, jury, and executioner. Prejudice: his gallows by which his victims hang.

What happens when you reach the top? It is the universal (redundant if you mean universal within the American dream. Conflicting if you mean truly universal 'cause the /American/ dream is not universal) American dream to constantly envision a future superior to our own. Yet, now you are at the peak- standing with your toes curled over the edge of a skyscraper in the skies highest skyscraper (Skyscrapers are technically attached to the ground). You are the angel of death- you can try to spread your wealth amongst the poor, but a dime would splinter even bone from such a height. Clouds gather at your waist, and tears freeze before you can weep. You step out into the clouds, and realize you are dead. You died before you could hit the pavement.

A useless corpse unburied in a cemetery of those dead and awaiting to die- man damns you for thievery; may the ravens peck out your flesh as you rot above soil. Only by the flip of the coin did my brother find eminence: he was the city’s beloved for symphonizing the cacophony of crime. Crime is far too much of an abstract word- what he did was emphasize the destruction of man. He erased the intolerance for the infliction of (that was /really/ wordy. I had to stop and think about what you meant and it was actually a pretty simple meaning) genocide. Because of him, man can mass-murder without sympathy. Because of him, man’s next war shall be fought with sticks and stones.

My fingers pinch and blister themselves upon pavement as I stumble to the ground. In order to protect oneself from the sensation of (unneeded) fear, he needs to inflict fear upon others. As tension overcomes the strings of man, leverage becomes the concept of scorn. Man begins to feel fear for the first time- they become the caricature of their truest emotions- black (confusing. Black isn't an emotion, but if you mean it as a metaphor, I suggest changing that dash into a colon. If you mean that man becomes black, a comma might work. Still confusing though). I roll against the brick lining of the building and stare blankly into the night atmosphere (too many "of the's"). The stars shine too brightly; they blacken the void behind them.

The rain ends.

Society was once perfected, but man desired more. He demanded the bloodshed to end all bloodshed. I shall grant him the retribution.


*****

To wake up dazed, your body quivering- drenched in a cold sweat, it is an every (Confused. Do you mean "it is an average morning" or something? It sounds like you mean the morning isn't spectacular, but every is a bad choice of words) morning. Hours suppress the body, the headaches cease, and all that remains is mornings’ mementos of forever. Yet, I can sleep easy knowing I shall wake again (too many "mornings"). With bones bludgeoned against the sidewalk, and flesh bruised to harmonize to all shades of red, walking is not my most favorable act of transportation. Rather, I sit upon an eroded flight of steps and watch the world play out from a harmless vantage point. Watch in silence as man bluffs his hand.

To spite brings forth the omniscious perspective of human error: every flaw, every fracture of the character, no diamond could be as immaculate (weren't you saying it was flawed? Then why're you comparing it to diamonds which are seem as [fairly] pure?). I can see the dignity seeping from their masks- they are a closet full of skulls, and I’ve just stumbled upon the door. In the dreary (isn't dreary an adjective? I guess it could be a noun... now I'm getting into the realms of uncertainty), ‘change’ is slathered in blood against a cement complex. It’s hidden in the darkest shadow of the tallest building; they gorge me with doubt and I am forced to wonder if rats have finally learned to write. From end to end to end, I want you to paint me a picture.

Life is birth’s tangent to death. Once things return/spin (more fitting/powerful, I believe. "hit" doesn't seem the right motion for a circle) full circle, you’ll realize you’ve gotten yourself nowhere. There is no ultimate meaning, yet man is suspended in perpetual disbelief; the light shines at the end of the tunnel, and all else is an empty silhouette. He shall interlock his fingers and pray on his knees till tears turn to dust, but the light shall always shines (repetition of "shall" is unnecessary) just as bright. He can run till his knees buckle, drag himself till his nails splinter off- and finally he will crawl through the illumination only to look up and see the light shining at the end of the tunnel once more… as he experiences death for the first time. Because only a dead man can draw a perfect circle.

Who is (contraction takes away from the power) the asinine fool? Who is the man that crawls in your skin, who you would as soon tear him out even at the expense of your life? The flappers smother the streets in their slander and sex, and they create reason to riot- they are the caricature of the future, the sexuality that man demands. Parents discipline their children by forcing them to become the scum of the streets, (I think you're really overusing dashes) watch as their minds foul and fold. Teach them to never lie, cheat, steal, or drink- so they lie, cheat, steal, and drink. I’ve seen poison kill a man faster than he could suffer, a bullet pierce a man’s head before he could hear the shutter of the rifle. Men can (lacks power if it's only a "can") lose themselves in technology, so (needs a word to join those phrases. "so" is quite powerful here) do we damn the Einstein for his good intentions? You can lose yourself in the rhythm of your heart. The rotation of the world seems to slow, and everything seems to lose its meaning; we condemn the man (not sure why that word is there) sociopath but hang the psycho- where do we draw the line on the precipice that separates the two? So I ask, who is (contraction takes away from the power) the asinine fool?

I can hear the sound and the fury; it cries and I can never comprehend ‘why.’ You can only tread so far before you quickly (unnecessary adverb) cut and fade to black. It has been ages since beauty has danced in the wind- now man demands flash and petrifaction. As much as it burdens me to openly admit, neither me nor man is yet dead- we both blindly assume what shall happen when the gravel road ends. The earth tremors beneath every step.

And only a dead man can paint me a perfect circle.


*****


Propaganda of fear finger-painted red, slathered across a brick on an apartment complex (too many words and just makes things less clear) wall. It emphasizes the fear: the haunting presence that throttles man’s neck in retribution. The ugly face of nature. I can feel my heart throb whenever I look upon the most hideous tree in thriving bloom; it is all the beauty of the world, the tragedy of humanity’s impact. This is how nature has callused; malice crackles in the flames of war as it melts and reconstructs. Humanity is the permanent scar; as the curtains close, Creon looks upon himself and experiences the tragedy.

Confusion of the concrete fear and the abstract worry--there is little to wonder for how a race of people can become so intertwined between meanings. Fear is not free will—you do not fear to fear as you do worry to worry. You writhe; you gaze upon the immaculate, see the colors absorbed and the reflections they shine. If truth does not derive from fear, may I be damned.

Worry is an ecstasy. Wreckage and affliction, simple burdens of possibility—nothing is imminent, and it serves the lone purpose of self-indulgence. Worry has its (not sure if that's what you meant to type) comeuppance; such a fragile flaw that cheapens the soul, yet grants man his deliverance. I secede. You can build a petrified man and not a single being could look into his eyes and perceive his worries.

Gaze into the heart of worry, and you can build a fear to petrify any man to the mallow. They shall suicide themselves ("suicide themselves"? Never had I heard a stranger phrase. I really suggest you save "They shall commit suicide" or something 'cause, well, "suicide themselves" was more funny than ominous). Hung from a rope in their closet, and in the shadows their corpse shall lurks; wrists slashed with flesh and bone interlocked, (repetition of "with") hairs between razor blades as they lay in bathtub, they will bury under dirt and tears shall dry in the shallow of two weeks (The phrase starting from "they will bury" lost me completely. Still talking about the razor blade suicide or onto something else? I really don't understand); they shall fall from buildings, but the buildings shall not be tall enough for a tragedy.

There is a seed- it shall wither in the soil and rain; it is nurtured from concrete and blood. An every lasting parasite, it will never bloom (original phrasing was too awkward). It takes shape from concept to substance, but a seed it shall always stay. It is the creation of societies past and societies present. We have chosen to modernize the abomination; we just weren’t aware of it.

What it once was—for abominations never were abominations prior to being abominations (The way you phrased it made it redundant. Perhaps you meant something in the vein of, "for abominations were never born abominations"?)—has become lost to man. I could never perceive my own tears till the fall from grace; I saw the splatter. He cheered, did man. Manipulated by posters and colorful moving pictures, subdued by the greed-eyed beast. Meanwhile, the might of two factions was conclusively being measured. As they looked into the sky, they seemed to gaze into the heart of fear.

“But their eyes were watching god,” (Zora Neale Hurston).

A little boy fell from the heavens and in the end there was only tragedy.
I witnessed the splatter.


I listened to man whisper:
“I am become death.” ("I have become death"? Or is this some strangely grammared [not a word, but who cares] phrase that I'm not familiar with? And I assume the weird line break formation in those last four paragraphs is intentional?)

quote:

I do not despise the embodiment of man—the shell that walks and interacts. There is no regret; a son can love his mother for being his mother whilst knowing nothing other than his own inherent affection. It is all that, yet never so simple. It is not by logic or ultimate innocence that draws and connects; [man can only be with instinct] (you sure those brackets were intentional?). Society raises order on the pedestal; it demands the perfection—our superegos to guide. For what is man but an animal sliding along the scales of justice? Perpetually unbalanced, morally distraught, and a commercial for sin. Hope is for the chance that order shall suffocate under the weight of the medals strapped around its neck.

The woman has not seen me since I was an immature (an immature? More specific please? Child? Teen? Pre-teen?). I’ve seen her since. She has aged—the mirror makes her look pretty. Perhaps the reflection holds her aspirations: reasons to wake and hurt, reasons put on apply (strong word) her make-up, reasons to fit into her red dress. Yet, occasion can make the corpses walk to their graves. She is a hysterical one amongst the many (better flow, in my opinion) hysterical others. Voices to fill the void of silence. This is the world as she would have remembered it. This is the world she believes she is a part of. Mother, sweet mother, the world you have birthed me to; mother, sweet mother, a playpen to your grave I have sentenced you.

You rest in a chair, and a woman begs you to keep your wake. Her eyes sparkle as your own dim—where have your memories gone? Your face has wrinkled through time and all it reflects is what used to be a smile of lament (do people smile in lamentation? As in, do sane people--I assume she was sane before she grew too old) and happiness. Perhaps you are absent. Perhaps you have been misplaced. Oh, mother, sweet mother. You stare back at yourself through the mirror has you are painted pretty with purple lipstick and luscious products of the sort (sentence ran on too long. Last part wasn't all that powerful anyways). What do you see (less awkward like this)? What are you looking past? Time has gone, wished you’d not have waved it by (wha? The stuff after the comma makes no sense. And I don't know why you suddenly switched to past tense)? Oh, mother, sweet mother.

It is time for you to fit into your red dress. It shall sparkle and shine for what you wished to have been. May I ask what is the occasion? To care to put on your red dress and not have the soul to laugh heartily into the mirror? To whatever fate has met you, I see it is grim (not sure about this one, but your original didn't make enough sense to me). Do not hesitate. If (can't see why you'd use a comma to connect those parts) you live now, there is still a life to be had—do not play it hallow, for I can still sense your desires. Oh, mother, put on you dress and look at yourself in the mirror; you’ll know it’s still there.

And as your arms buckle (not sure if this is the right word. Sounds like she didn't succeed. Maybe "strain"?) to push yourself from your chair, with the arm of your assistant wrapped about your shoulder, you will beg her to zip up the back of your dress. I know it will still fit you as if it were meant to. But, oh, mother, sweet mother, if you look into the mirror I don't think you shall come to laugh. Oh, mother.

That black dress does not sparkle and shine. When you look into the mirror, your eyes just seem to cloud. What happened to the memories? To you aspirations? Where is your laugh? Oh, mother, I can hear such a sweet symphony coming from outside. Cover your eyes as the hearse comes to pass—just close your eyes and listen closely. Do not cry. Just--lose yourself in the splendor of the requiem.

Oh, mother, sweet mother…


*****


The devil is a lie even he can believe. Perhaps it is Stockholm syndrome. Blind yourself in unreason, falsities, and faith and you shall become seduced and hypnotized—grant them a finale, and surely they shall gather. It is the hope and reason for hope and reason. Trapped in your wheeled chair, the basis to your madness is illogic; you blame yourself and your damn bokononism. Even if you could walk, you can’t, you have done what you have done and because of it, that is what you shall do. Your chaos constructs the Deus ex Machina, and through structure the devil emerges (I think this sounds more flowing) from the machine.

Due to the fate of probability, it is the constant of variables variable (I think it's more commonly referred to a simply "constant variable" not "constant of variables" which is too literary for this math and physics term) to act indecisively. Watch for where you waver, for if your toes curl against edge of a drop, your end game shall be unforeseen. It is by no will, but due to existence itself. Everything is possible and the improbable are definite. Existence is quite the gamble. It was today Today, (Using "was" is a bit awkward because you're saying today and was using present tense most of the time. The sudden use of past was jarring here) I saw the body of a boy propped up against the blackest of an alleyway—his hands cupped, a pale face pure and a body emaciated. Whether he lives now or died a day before, he is no longer innocent; he is one of many—the ‘trash’ that litter the sidewalks—and it takes only so many people passing him by before he realizes that no one cares for the small boy with the cupped hands decomposing on a sidewalk infested with vermin (all this is just repetitive and unnecessary, dragging too long and taking away from the power of the sentence). Man bore him an undesirable, and so he shall stay.

Innocent implies opportunity unmeasured. Yet time leads every born man to die upon the same bed—sooner or later everything oxidizes. Now they expect the man of gold to slide a few toes over the counter to help reconstruct the air they breathe. Their nation shall acknowledge them, and once the man of riches stands upon his own two feet and realizes there are no two feet to stand upon, society will be there to ship him out before they close his eyes. Who shall care but the mother with tears in her roses (tears in her roses? So they dropped from her eyes onto the roses? I guess I get it, but it is a little strange) wondering where all the laughter has gone. (Not needed question mark. Wondering about something isn't a question. It's a statement about a question. Unless you have the question part in quotes set apart, you don't need a question mark)

There is no one left to worry about the shadow touching their children. Time has led to conclusion upon conclusion—events shall occur and there is no impact I shall ever make upon them. No contribution I can make to such an extent (Last part can probably use a rephrase. "I can make to a great extent" is probably what you're going for. "such as" doesn't work because we don't know how much the such is). Impatience is hardly a factor, but in search for reason, I find man with his sins so multidimensional. One day he shall look to the skies and see how much of a fool he was. I’ll be nothing more than the silhouette with a shovel, and behind every man shall be the shadow of his grave.

Give him the world, and show him the hell. Perfection shatters into tragedy, and who shall be there to blame? The man who slaughtered his family and had enough time to down a beer before dealing with the corpses bleeding out on his new carpet.

“Tiger got to hunt, bird got to fly; Man got to sit and wonder 'why, why, why?' Tiger got to sleep, bird got to land; Man got to tell himself he understand.” (I realize I haven't been throwing any compliments in during my critique. Here's one. I like how you placed this quote. I think it's the most powerful and related quote of them all. Though you didn't write it, you used it in a timely fashion)
~Kurt Vonnegut


*****


There is no heartless (heartless is not a noun. I guess you can force it to be one, but I think there must be a better way to say this)—to whom do I owe the sympathy? I am quite partial to the concepts, as pure and improbable as they are; you cannot perceive all the faults within a system so complicated that you are, quite simply, just a part of. It shall drought (not sure if you can force drought to be a verb either), and men shall drown in the rain. Look up to the empty skies and believe your beliefs (More powerful to end with believe, in my opinion. Raises some doubts, but adds more interest). You cannot fix anything; any attempt to do so is completely ludicrous. Now, pick yourself up from your chair--you haven’t the feet to walk, but I haven’t danced in ages.

We can control nothing—all we can do is influence the outcomes, and that is how the world came to be. That is what’s most disgusting: man is not a product of design. There was no scheme--only the plausible factors that could twist the social evolution of man. Some would say that man is an improbable miracle, yet they never rationalize from anywhere other than their emaciated throne—a shallow vantage point from which the hallow whisper softly, and the world begins to quake.

Concrete wasteland. Under the haze and hustle, man’s lips crust and he shall begins to envy and lust. It has not rained in quite some time, and the tension is driving everyone a little bit closer to midnight. The blood is beginning to scab over; etched in the streets, these are the shadows that will (Frankly, you have too many "shall's" this chapter) mark the existence of an archaic society. The end is inevitable; give a man a diamond and all he shall sees is the sparkle and shine.

In the end, there is only the end (I know the repetition is intentional, but I think "there is only finality" has the same effect along with showing a broader vocabulary. Also, I suggest making it mainly present tense this paragraph cause the second half of the paragraph is in present tense. I dunno why you suddenly have past in the beginning). There are no moments before; there is only the end. It has already been decided: everything ends the same. Every action is absolute before it occurs, and once it passes, it never happened. That is simply the beginning. Everything is set, and all that is set is absolutely for naught. There is no justice, there is no reasoning--in the end there is just the quick cut to black.

Sin can bury six feet deep. It does not expire from the ashes. Burdens shall carries from beyond the grave, no matter how many petals and tears bind (strange word. "occur at" would be what I'd say, but I guess you can keep this little odd imagery) to your burial. There are four tombstones. Two are still reserved, and obligations cause me to visit. There are some that have gathered and gone, but a few remain. They are mostly leeches—their lips quiver, they restrain; no need to drool upon a sacred tombstone before the reading of the last will and testament can begin. He may have been a man of nature, but the dog has lost his lead.

I have already interfered with the natural order—spared the bloodshed to trigger more bloodshed. The oaf was stumbling about in a minefield and he saw nothing on either ends. Aggression can only cause more aggression, and fear becomes an offensive opportunity. War is a constant, an inevitability. In perspective, there is never a good and evil—there is only right and those who shall defend whatever ‘right’ so happens to be. War shall be, and no fourteen points will ever amount to do a damn thing.

In the end, war shall have been set and gone. Scars shall have never truly existed. There will be no sanctuary, no doubt, and in the final moments, we’ll all have learned how to stop worrying and love the fools.

quote:

where structure is the accumulated madness, you ask yourself how many times you and speak the truth till it becomes a lie.

quote:

in their final moments—right before they choke on their own blood and leave you to fall—and that is all they will every think about, for in the end, everything is already over.

quote:

Only a fool can think himself so free that he can jump from the tallest building at his highest moment and assume that people shall think of him only how we was in those final moments.

quote:

they audience laughs at the dramatic irony.

quote:

you cannot help but feel your breathe leave your body as you take a step down.

quote:

This is where you screams die out and your tears run dry.

quote:

He picks his she from the floor and ascends to the next step and watches the world from a grain of sand.