PATH OF DAGGERS.  CROWN OF SWORDS.

We tried.  And we failed.    
 
xxx
Complete incompetence in the face of unbridled destruction.  It weeps, it bleeds, and each day a new gash is added.  Why must I cower in the shadow of defeat?  Why must I retreat from the shores that bring me life?  Every waking moment spent plotting my return.  Every thought brings me back to you.  Can't even bring myself to say your name.  It takes me to a time where I'll remain.  And rational thought asks, 'Why?  Why resume a state of depression?  Why revel in corruption and impotence?'  And as out hands reach out to choke the voice of reason, our own thoughts echo:  "Egress."  Contact for only a breath.  One last glimpse of a bloated face, bloodstained and fixed with a grin of malice which would have held its own in the nethermost hell.  Yet our thoughts rebuke:  "Egress."
 
An elitist tyranny to be replaced by an elitist bureaucracy.  Dance and shake, dance and shake, a pseudo political dance that boils down to a "Fuck you, mom and dad!"  Just find the weirdest thrift store collage in a desperate bid for attention.  Communal living means endless meetings about nothing.  These are the times when I want to sink my teeth into the neck of the collective, to rip out its throat and forever silence the monotonous whining and every ineffectual voice.  An iron fist directed by an indomitable will, sending gale force winds toppling every filthy punk house.  And I won't be satisfied until every fire is set and I watch all of you drown.  Now get on your bikes and ride.
 
Rise up with your daggers drawn, naked blades to accompany naked hate.  Civility must be discarded as we invoke the spirit of '77.  Our anger is a blade unsheathed.  Rebellion is a knife at every throat.  The scars of our bondage are usurped as we are bonded once again.  Re-packed and re-sold, the commodification of our dissent.  No future.  Seething frustrations can only manifest themselves as dissension scrawled on every wall, as thieving hands depleting stock, as a smashed out storefront, as a burnt out mall, as violent retribution.
 
Writhing under the booted kicks of social normalization, ground beneath the heel of imperialist consumerism, choking beneath the smokestacks of progress--mutilated self interest becomes homicidal thought becomes heedless action. Justice forgone. Business has become a means to exterminate and annihilate. That is all. Conditioning. Serfdom. Oblivion. We have constrained ourselves to a life of servitude where even our slave-masters will never find contentment. Let us face it: our lives are miserable, laborious, and short. We are born, we are given just as much food as will keep the breath in our bodies, and those of us who are capable of it are forced to work to the last atom of our strength; and the very instant that our usefulness has come to an end we are slaughtered with hideous cruelty.
 
The words of power lay broken in a thousand pieces.  Youthful ideology has been abandoned to an age of endless decadence.  This is advancement.  This is entertainment.  You relinquish control on the dotted line.  You criticize the stubbornness of an unbending will.  You laugh your way to the bank, trading control for convenience.  I remain in an eternal struggle.  Clawing every inch of the way to the conclusion of a utopian dream, one which can be blown away for some by the slightest breeze, the faintest whisper.  Fame, career, stability:  stagnation.  This can only end when I tread upon the tyrant's head--or wear it upon my sword.  Do you really fucking get it?  No.