“Great City, Pillared And Towering Driven Deep By God’s Wrath And Wars In That Vast Desert Still

Be a fool, and learn.

Plato’s Paradise

As I walk through the allegory of my own cave I take a look at the shadows and realize the forms’ll save ‘Cause I’ve been speakin’ and teachin’ so long That even Protagoras thinks my mind is gone But I ain’t never crushed a thought that didn’t deserve it Basing my work in the world, you know that’s unheard of You better watch how you talkin’ and where you walkin’ Or you and your sophists might be lined in chalk I really hate to trip, but I gotta show As they choke, I see the victory is mine they know Fool, I’m philosophy that little bloggers wanna be like On my couch in the night, spittin’ truths in the polis heights  Keep spending most our lives Livin’ in platonic paradise Been spending most their lives Livin’ in platonic paradise We keep spending most our lives Livin’ in platonic paradise We keep spending most our lives Livin’ in platonic paradise

The desert is coming to England

The desert is coming to England. The daisies are pushing up dust. The henges are looming through ashes. Our sunsets are ochre and rust. And plaster Elizabeth peers from the sand, And plaster Victoria’s one outstretched hand Is silently crumbling back into the land Where the desert is coming to England.

We don’t know how long it was coming, The route that it wove through the wars. Our safety for years has been sealing Our ears and our minds and our doors. We thought we’d stay safe from the sorrows of what The wider world whispered by keeping them shut But the borders are closed and the cables are cut And the desert’s still coming to England

So sing of Britannia’s twilight, A lullaby to it’s last gleaming: Under the shadows, the satellite-fires To usher the end of her dreaming. We thought it would come with the beat of a drum, With the fire of our bows burning bright like the sun, But silently, slowly and softly it’s come: The desert is coming to England.

[Record scratch] [Freeze frame] Verily, that is me. Abraham, chosen one of God. Thou art probably wondering how I came to be in that situation.

Strip my skin and free my soul. Help me turn my back on my former self, help me shine from the inside out. Grant me the strength to smile through the process of gentle, silent, pain.

me every single day of my life

me when I see the psychiatrist

Silence is death, nothing is death

Then, death is nothing at all.

Every day, I come home to this guy doing something stupid. Today is no different than any other day.

I love this piece, a lot. By Vasily Kafanov