OH HERTICS

> Oh heretics, self professed prophets, and glass ball blastfamousist, your messages are misunderstood with shapeless nuance evaded. Your spewed rants are unheard. Circles that surround you no longer listen, they are confused and at most preoccupied. Perhaps in your defence thy are uncompromising. What you have orated in centralized forums has little relevance with with current thought, stop preaching to the wrong church, heretics.

> The ground is eroding from beneath your feet. Doomed trot the chain-gang of media realists tailing what they call the essentials. Apparent truths, fascist notions of happiness, that exactly what you heard, heretic. There’s nothing left, you’ve fallen between the generational loops of tendencies in reoccurrence. Dust settles on your short-winded words.

> Oh, now you have questions, you’ve begun to ask yourself what is the wrong thing to do, what shouldn’t you do, and convince yourself to follow suite. Cynicism is a distraction from true insecurities of winded cracks. You still believe that your critics’ claims are thoughtless dilettante reductions.

> Heretics, stop your structureless claims for justification.

> Be assured, that questions direct or in direct are not posed to you, are no longer for you. A self-professed facilitator towards the sublime, you answer quickly to questions about the holy. almighty, and incredible, but are steadfast in your own oblivion.

> Soft pink, the color of your bathrobe, and a color in conflict with your bath time behavior. Boom boom blasting out the bathroom window, your pink covered body is sucked out through the gaping hole. As you tie down babies to their chairs, your cowboy critics ride across the dusty pastures. Green pastures found down fog infected ocean bound littorals but only time can tell if horizons will be green or blue for you, heretics.

> DISCLAIMER: this text was generated from a series of exquisite corpse exercised conducted during 24 hours of Snor.