I am but a test subject. Nothing is organic anymore. The way we interact is almost robotic. The methods we use to solve problems are rigid. War and famine is a byproduct for somebody else’s personal gain. It sickens me that rotten scum like that exist. But what can I do? I can’t, or at least, it feels that way. I can talk, scream, convey, sing, but I can’t fix anything myself. I can put in the extra effort to be the best that I can be. No one does that. Not these days. Not ever. Humanity is freshly expelled bile and the bacteria are attempting to colonize the only life source it has. Planet Earth is just as disposable as plastic forks and knives during your Fourth of July dinner barberque. Plastic like the floor in solitary confinement. You’ve been in the white room for so long, you experience sensory depravation. You insert things with your brain. You begin to hallucinate. You see things. You hear strange noises you should never see before. The world is a bright place, and light shines on all of its flaws. The world wants to be bulimic for how ugly it is, and as you try to counsel the hurt it feels, it spit acid in your face and socks you square in the nose. Fuck you, world. I’ll go sit by myself. Alone in the dark, where everything is familiar. Away from you. From you and your callas scorns. I will sit by myself, decaying in desolation.