Crawling doesn't work anymore, I SCREAM, looking you in the eyes. The arms and the legs do not appreciate the feeling of carpet and pavement and glass patches that they encounter while sliding along. They prefer to run and roam, burning the fuse of this Empire with something more than the Bic Lighter you call loving.
Thinking, I've started to see.
Melting the glacial ice, I encountered the surrealistic prehistoric visions of an imagined self that certainly wasn't wearing these limbs and shrugging its shoulders in the moonlight of experience. It screamed defiance, holding its head high and understanding what it dreamed when it went and wished on faraway soil. It knew that the "two" in "one" was a formulation of conquest conceptualized to beat back time and not this painstaking claim that finds toetags on the limelight of experience everytime I look over my shoulder to sigh.

I remember now and I am in the mood for war.

Scorched Earth inside, I want to burn other villas of experience to the ground and slaughter denizens residing in the way you like to look in judgment and say "this is what living should feel like." I want to grasp that mitigation by its feet and bash it against walls until it slips into a coma and forgets the hideous designs that try time and again to become less that this becoming.
I want more than the mind-numbing banter that you wash over the world, hoping for fingernails to grow back so I can claw at the walls of this coffin and make it hurt.
I want to break the ocean and make it rain.

Seething, I will ultimately break the silence by striding.