He’d become some amount of retarded. Not quite able to put his finger on the very instance when life dilineated from simplistic paradigms to over complicated manifestations of self preservation.

It hurt his head to think about it. It hurt his head to think about them. They were monsters of beauty. All of them. From the magnificence to the desolate. An army of materially jiving beings set on a course for destruction. Of course this was not reality, but in the petrified state of belonging to something, someone, he jadedly followed suit to his beliefs.

It fucked his head in too many directions that finding an absolute compass point was impossible. The steps were classified long ago and a foundation of love was set. Society would demand he accept his fate and act accordingly. The system, which he fully denied otherwise, had still corraled him into thinking that life would just be that way.

Enigmas and pony baptists.