All of this hatred is fucking real.

Of late, it's harder just to go outside, to leave this deadspace with hatred, so alive. Writhing with sickness, thrown into banality, I decay killed by the weakness, but forced to return. Turn it off. I watch the stars as they fall from the sky. I held a fallen star and it wept for me, dying. I feel the fallen stars encircle me, now as they cry. Out there so quickly grows malignant tribes. Posthuman extinction excels, unrecognized. Feeling surrounded. So bored with mortality, I decay.