There’s a heinous wind of wanting that sheds lightly bound despair to the trundled carts of cash swept from their bodies.
Aching insides so very desperate, desiring the next and the next until the vacancy between their heart and soul is refined.
Never use the words “better than” when referring to your own, it makes you seem shallow in a wading pool of sharks and minnows.
What was the purpose? The sheer ecstasy of the reveal, the acquisition, the placement, the perfect moment of satisfaction felt so briefly?
What wiring madness has been mounted to the mainframe that this ceaseless task marks consumers as those to be consumed?
Eaten alive beneath wild stacks of treasure all aglitter in the pelting wind, eyes glazed to a rapture of earthly delights.
To Ink - a blog from Melting Neurons 