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Hello, survivours guilt.

Doctors stare at you, innocently and honestly. STRESSED. Tell you words that should calm you, set you at peace - you're not gonna die. They dismiss the rope around my neck, the blood under my nails, the weight on my eyelids. Just fine, a o kay, relax. You don't have an illness, you're not in danger, you will live another day. All the good news is fucking disappointing. The stress is an illness, it eats at me, every single day, and every single night. My friend, you were fucking right. I will never understand you, but i think i'm beginning to. My mum cut my hair today, yet the feeling never left. I'm hollow, my eyes are hollow and grey, can no one see? Why, if i feel everyone around, no one can feel me? No one can feel the grey, the heavy, the numb. The skin looks fine, its nerve damage. Invisible, the issue is that i don't FEEL. Tears are futile at this point, i'm scared. I'm not sick, they say - but i am, and i don't want it to kill me. I'm scared it will kill me and i don't know what to do about it. I'm so scared I cry. I cry alot, i have scars burnt by the salt. I cry and i'm scared. I'm so scared. I don't have any fears, I don't have any preferences. I'm morally grey, i'm neutral by nature. I have no sense of identity, I'm a stranger to myself. ALL I KNOW IS FEAR AND IT MAKES ME CRY.

Hello, DEATH OF AN INNOCENT AMBITION COMING FROM WRATH

This comes to you from a dead teenager. Your busy, quick-paced life happens to be disturbed by a cry, you go on about your day without a thought, maybe you don't hear it at all behind your overpriced noise-suppressing high-definition airpods pro3 as you take a sip from your Iced Chai Tea Matcha Latte. The cry is not over a western luxury, invented to get you craving to spend more numbers on their futile inventions. The city hears it, the country, the world hears that cry and no money stops it. The cry did the only thing it was meant to do - to create. It created a point of interest for you dazed motherfuckers. You walk past the glass buildings, watching underpaid city workers wash off graffiti off of the side of a MCDonalds, but you notice a hint of distain in their eyes. The colours melt under their feet, are they happy with what they do? As if you care, you don't even notice any of it. You don't care for the world around the device in your hand that shows you the view from a NYC skyscraper. If it was up to me, i'd bash every and each of those towers down. The devices too, which is ironic, isn't it? The only reason you see this is because it found you here, digitally. That's because the world is getting near-sighted, you only see what's shoved into your hand, so eat it up you bastard. To hell with everyone who kills, to hell with all of you devoted ones and saints who carry the blood of children on their shoulders as handbags. To hell with all who abandoned the roots, the joy, the joy of creation. To hell with all who kill creation, who kill the paintbrushes and pens. To hell with every elementary grade child who things their IPhone is worth more than the drawing of the quiet kid. You've been poisoned by neglegence, bet the only love you've seen from your parents is their addiction to that device, no? This cry comes to you and it's no longer soft and gentle, it's as sharp as the glass shards in factories. This cry is an artist and it will never cease, it will never stop its siren. The busy world isn't rich enough to pay that debt. I call to the creators, to wield your tools and attack your neighbours. I call to stab your capitalist preacher with the oversharpened pencil. I call to ridicule the swines in office with real, ethical and sincere shit on a canvas. I call to you souls for violence against this blandness, for the smog will not destroy us - merely hide. If we can't see them through it, they can't see us. That's important, for we design the ambush to their towers. This comes to you from the death of art, and it's redemption. This comes to you from all the rotten dreams. This comes to you from all the system failed, tried to suppress, tried to kill. You cannot kill the tree, merely the stem, but the roots don't fall. You cannot kill the primal ache of creation, and if you try to burn history, burn the roots, you will burn with us, you brain-numbing blind, lying pieces of shit in suits. Your suit will carry the red of your nation. Hail to creation, hail to the undead art of expression. Fueled by the rot of dreams, carried by the rot of acceptance of an innocent ambition coming from wrath.