Ravings

An out of stock merchant who specializes in observation. Third-party spectating is not a last resort. It implies that we’ve tried all else and we’ve run out of options. That is not the case.

We have no excuse for this. The only ravings to excuse such apathy which have become a satirical stereotype to my mind’s humdrum are fault of the difference in that first challenge. The difference in difficulty which overthrew us from the start and presented no experience or illusion of a next step.

The reason that we today find melancholy and inspiration hand in hand is because we’ve found novelty and difficulty first.
That’s our best excuse.

We had no resources or experience to withstand such waves.
Dissent was embodied in identity which we never exposed to the world again. Little did we know that they are of utmost co-dependence, a sort of symbiosis. One dies without the other.

This is the part where in every prose I blame detachment (I already have) or dysphoria for my troubles.

Those ravings of pseudo-ignorance, which in turn only yield pseudo-bliss. They have been emptied and flowed into bowls of apathy and cries of deliverance. We throw this justification at every summer that we phase through with long sleeves, and morning we sleep away. We excuse those nights at home when the striking hour (like us) builds up until 12. And when those two clock hands meet, in the silence we break. Only the tic-tocs and coo-coos and my own ravings can be heard. The silence, just shy of complete indifference to the periodical sounds which serve no real purpose and are only louder the more hollow the source is, remains unbroken. It remains an echo of time ticking by, and us failing to catch up.

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