Perhaps the angst inside is knowing one could invade reality, at any point, but parting from it is needed first and develop one’s own reality, free and fair. Maybe the angst is the wisdom of seeing a stumbling society, down the mountain with no brakes, a destruction anyone could save and knowing death is definite.

Existing existence, but to true in freedom of reality’s kingdom is for those who seek, rare and original, accepting all loss of life to their peers and family, earthy prestige from status and social forms.

A muse lives across the arts and martyrs begin at the point of death. Peeking from the curtains, eating apples rather than from water. A thirst. A lust. A rawness to master.

To sell your soul is much easier than one would think. Not to regret from deriving shame is rare. Selling and regret are many forms, like conforming to social herds.

Be a pillar of existence now, in exile, the other side or in death. Come creep with me, you know I can keep a secret, but you gotta be blood in, blood out. You cannot see the dog from the fog