Filth.

Bathe in your own filth. Sit there and marinate in it. Let it corrode the veins of the you they see before them. Know of your lies and lustful verbiage. Know of your callous smile as they offered the divine pathway of peace before your eyes. But you, omniscient being, knowing, perceiving that this, was not peace but a night of gloom you were to be walking. A lost pathway for your exiled soul. Realize in the silent seconds of servitude to a mere cage which provokes you into agonizing astonishment and palpable personal persuasion, that in that horror of midnight blackness, behind the walls of apathetic absolution, in surreal breathlessness, in that brief time of blithe dreaming.... you existed. Through serenity in a lie, you were alive. You moved with the passion that became your thorny crown. You lived. In dreams, you were real. You were free. No longer relying on the cerebral choke hold of that underestimated organ residing in your skull. Intellectually inclined to perfect conversation but intuitively longing for confirmation, substance, assurance. Dreams know of no promises. It is a curse they share with lies. Dreams, elaborate lies, perhaps simple ones, what difference would it make? You lived but for one hour amongst the stars and they sent you to the gallows, a black bag of delusion over your head. A noose of reality, truths, of which they slung around your neck, spinning in wistfulness from the apotheosis of what now remains a stranger occurring inside. Silence at the realization of idiocracy on the part of your being. Thus this hanged man's sentence carried out. Bathe in your filth. Know it all. In dreaming alone, we exist.