Drink deep of your mortality. Accept the blueprint for non-achievement, the well-tread path of capitulation. Bury the suffering and ecstasies. When will the old gods be avenged? Extol a life of compromise. Resigned to quiet submission. When will the old gods be avenged? Welcome boredom and banal normality. Farewell to joy and laughter and trust. Welcome fear, suspicion, and hatred. There is the stench of the gathering of flies. You have the look of a strangled child. You have the look of a hollow shell. You have the look of a rotting corpse. Entombed under intolerable weight, in the delusions of wish fulfillment. Escape the standards of youth. Find sanctuary in a cringing half-life. It's called moving on. It's called growing up. It's called giving up. Lurking in the shadow of your past, lurking in the blackness of acquiescence, pathetic acceptance.
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