cat-death-auto

i see it... lurking... hiding... ever-present in our lives, as we continually work to rid ourselves of it, it morphs and becomes larger and stranger. An ever-present ever-growing problem in our lives, a problem that, in the larger scheme will fall to nullness, and voidness so that our ever-present struggle shall also fall to nullness.It ends up being just another task that is forced upon us by a society that is as changing as the homework, both changing and growing, but never truly advancing. As society changes only the boundaries of countries, and the names of the people in charge and the technologies we use change. And very few make it into

you feel like  a freefall a lunge off of a cliff into an open abyss where my heart stops beating and my lungs stop breathing and all that's left is the sky, your eyes and the fall

MCR fans of every age Wouldn't you like to see something strange? Come with us and you will see This, our town of Ieroween This is Ieroween, this is Ieroween Killjoys scream in the dead of night This is Ieroween, everyone is spazzing Sing along your neighbors gonna die of delight It's our town, everybody sing In this town of Ieroween I am the one hiding under your bunk With glowing hazel eyes and a rhythm guitar I am the one hiding on your bus Fingerless gloves and red and black hair This is Ieroween, this is Ieroween Ieroween! Ieroween! Ieroween! Ieroween! In this town we call home Everyone hail to the Killjoy song In this

A lost, lonely program wanders the streets of the system. Slowly but surely it approaches the 'red glow' district. It hurts, it just wants to lose itself. It pauses in front of a less than notable installment in the strip of 'businesses'. Bass throbs through the program's body, even from outside. The program looks up. Overhead, it sees immense white letters that take up the majority of the small front. "Dark Circuits".  The program pulls the door handle, a rare thing in the system. Immediately, the program is hit with a wall of sound that would deafen a user. It forces its way into the crowd, pushing and shoving aside other programs until it

Life is like a box of crayons. At birth, you're given a great big box of them to share and add color to your life. Some colors get used more than others. Sometimes, a crayon gets broken. A Bright color gets snapped in half and tossed in the garbage can, never to be returned. Sometimes you keep coloring. Sometimes you can't. That color was important. Sometimes a crayon is gained, shared between two people. That color might be just perfect, and works great! Other times it's a different shade, but it will make do. But, there is always one color left in the box. Black. It's normally unused until death. It's used to frame the picture. To ad

I'm on the 13th floor balcony and I'm late for your judgment. Those wily eyes that twitch and turn, looking directly into mine, and laugh with a barking mad symphony of a thousand bloodhounds. You've pushed me to the edge of this balcony, and when I trip and fall the only one you'll blame is me, as usual. It's always me you blame. You're planning to do it again, taking your silent time to retain that lustful, devilish smirk I wash away. Oh the horror, when I was away that grin, and make myself mirrors out of these young foolish eyes. And you crave to run, run, run until I beg for you to run back to me, until my blood curdles in my veins. You

     Did you know that out of all the words the English language has to offer, those who speak it usually only have 20,000 in their vocabulary? Or maybe it's only 20,000 that are used on a somewhat regular basis. Either way, think of all the poor unused words, the ones that have been banished to the dusty, darkening pages of dictionaries and are usually only used for some deranged English class project. Or, more tragically, the ones that have been eliminated entirely from the modern-day word, only to be rediscovered by taking a deep delve into the past works which are being reworded as generations increase so that the meaning is the same but

All these things, you ask of me, for me, so easy, you believe -- to me, as easy as memory that tears deep trenches into me to rid from the depths in me -- all these things you ask, you see for me, impossible to achieve.