The Great Wake 70: Souls Know
Voices in the wind, muzzled, unheard. Gnashing on earth, grinding to say, say out loud and clear. To no avail; those that hear, don't care, those that care, don't hear. Only written words can break through and endure. Human writing has its charms.
The programmers have no humor, souls are immune to manipulation. Souls laugh, they have intuition. Souls know. The chill of authenticity, the electrical wave shocks, the eebee geebees. Nothing replicates the soul.
Try on another mask, snap it tight, a wig for the poofs, extentions for the ahhs. Brow games and lashes. Reality is bland, with work and people and nothing and things. It's a social tune out, a hypnotic episode, self-induced and welcome. Canned laughter and agressive annoyances.
The programmers have no humor, souls are immune to manipulation. Souls laugh, they have intuition. Souls know. The chill of authenticity, the electrical wave shocks, the eebee geebees. Nothing replicates the soul.
Try on another mask, snap it tight, a wig for the poofs, extentions for the ahhs. Brow games and lashes. Reality is bland, with work and people and nothing and things. It's a social tune out, a hypnotic episode, self-induced and welcome. Canned laughter and agressive annoyances.