Consisting of consistency 

I wonder about this world and all its hate, Your heart really thrills but then deflates,  you blog about  it all thats all you know, its all you can do, its a thought i have so often i ought to borrow a block from somebody’s elses drop so my brain can sit in silence. 21 pilots are for people.

I ponder on something crazyily incoherently and sophisticatedly retarded to the core of its existance in its conception into an idea that pops up whenever i move. Its this idea of meaning.

Who are we? But a speck of dirt and grime on the windshield we have called this galaxy. The galaxy is but a car on a highway, and its not the only highway too. 

Were nothing. Nothing but and nothing more than nothing.

We ponder we think we listen  we create  we fly we walk we run we jump we leave our mark on this windshield. Until the bossman wipes it all clean.

I think and ponder, my thoughts the wander and my breath it squanders, i feel claustrophobic and incomplete. Incoherent and obscurely obsolete.

Im nothing. 

My phone beeps out a solemn hum, a vow it takes to get me out of my dumps. 
Thank god she called. 

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