We scorn violence, yet indulge in violent means. We look for peace in all the wrong places. We walk on clouds, call them thorns. We are lucky yet we starve. Starve for more, whether it be something we have already. We walk among the rest of the world like we are the only ones in it. To be lonely in a crowd, but a loneliness of our own making. Its the end of the beginning and the beginning of the end. I know not when I am waking nor when rest is upon me. These days fly by and even the sun isn't sure of itself anymore. Confusion is a given, happiness a gift. My mind is filled with hopeless laughter, mocking that which I have created. The mess of life, of death, a tumble, jumble of colours and sounds. Unintelligible noises filing cracks in our resolve, white noise turns black under scrutiny by the masses. To ask me is to wrong me. I only wish for the all-consuming dark that comforts us all. To be truthful the end is nearer than we want and further away than we would like. We are hypocrites, yet we readily believe. Our world is a perfect clash of conscience where beauty and violence, art and blood, love and hate, live on in peace with one another. The heart inside us all pumps with blood, not love so where do we get such crazy emotions. Our minds playing tricks on us perhaps? I know not, it is for better men than me to speculate. But I will say, in the end. That all-consuming end, we are all just the same.