It is difficult not to think that until we are ready to face our demise – to embrace decay, to disintegrate in loamy abandon to the earth beneath our feet, to call back the foot soldiers we have deployed to the gates of our cities – the ones that hold back the sweeping swing of the lofty arc of degeneration…until we gaze into the darkness of unbecoming, we will only know the beeping sounds of tired machines – too exhausted from pretending that their assemblage keeps us alive; we will know beauty as cosmetic depth, and frown at the sagging of skins; we will know crisis as a war cry instead of an invitation to sit still. In other words, we will know life in part, and not in her full body. Rust is full ripeness.
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