I contemplate the decaying force of the forged nature,
that I have been forced to admire. 
None of this is more special then a bitter draft at sunrise.

I am just flesh attached to bones that serve no other purpose, other than rotting;

The beauty of everything that has ever yearned to be beautyful is just makeup on existentialist dross;

I am the bitter taste of gall that circulates in the veins of those who still consider the eternal penitence a godly gift.

All your idols are dead, they died in vain, what for?

...Life?