100 meters to a mirage of a finish line (written by jack lester)

where does ambition go to die? at the intersection of thought and inaction (or intention) is a motherfucker of a mushroom cloud. i’m not even sure if its safe to listen to myself. i’m prone to lie. take into consideration this instance of inertia: a dumpster filled to the rim with the unwarranted opinions and expectations of other humans. in a sense, the previous renders reality as a polluted illusion of infinite conclusions all leading nowhere. would synchronizing with the heartbeats of animals yield better results for the worser? in plainer english, an overdose on ego combined with a cryptic culture of currency make tombs from eroded sand castles. i fear not going, yet going without purpose. 





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