Breakdown for Breakfast

The sun surrenders to sorrow.  Weariness precludes tears when the world wears you out with depression’s dangerous disease as you are eaten alive without and within sometimes you just want to give up your body and your mind collude to collapse colliding with calamity the leftovers of your soul agree to rot allow you to confess it’s all over whether you like it or not and you decidedly don’t you’re sick of everything life just has that effect after awhile not necessarily that you’ve seen it all before but you fall prey to weakness as strength moves away from you in favor of younger vessels and you wait ever so patiently to explode in silence and finish disintegrating out of sight and out of your mind with ridiculous disgust in the festival of folly thrown out the window by fate fed up with yourself vomited into oblivion by the goddess of the blues and flushed down the toilet of time into the tunnel of tomorrows the affable agony of aging ineffably fabulous fiasco of myopic masochism’s misbegotten masquerade as you stumble drunkenly off the stage and break your neck by falling on the director who’s fallen asleep and in love with a dream he will wake up to forget as the audience applauds and implodes with aplomb and a long collective yawn as it dawns on them that the show’s over and the fundamentally flawed launch of love’s lunch has lost its punch and for now anyway the fun is gone.

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