Lies are too easy, especially when you have something to hide behind.
Lines on a page, how can they say so much?
How do you know they mean anything?
You can’t prove that they aren’t just empty.
        Scribbles.
               Letters.
                      Words.
                             And dots.
Nothing more.
But nothing less.


The reality of illusions,
And the illusion of reality.
Science is merely
    a game,
In an infinite web called
     the universe.


Insignificance.
What does it matter how many tears we
                      shed?
And how much blood we
                      lose?
How loud and hard we
                     scream?


Clones.
      Row after row.
                   Of clones.

Processed
         And prepared.
                 For the hell someone named:
Life.


Why are we never
            Prepared for
                  Nothing?
Never prepared for
                             death.