WORK IN PROGRESS
I carry myself in high esteem, but that's like asking a dead man, what did you dream? There is no point to this story, no legacy to win, no lasting glory. We die in droves and rot in holes. We tell ourselves that we are unique, but last I heard, seven billion was our latest peak.
We are nothing after all, just a mistake, a fluke, a giant dropped ball.
Some say we've been created, molded by the very hand of God; but after seeing reality, I find this very odd.
We grate and hate, murder, kill, rape, and manipulate.
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