Waking again in this comfortable house, in this comfortable world. The triviality of my existence in a civilized nation, a world to me long since removed of survival, necessity, violence. There seems little need for anything, choice and feigned duty is all most of us know.

What strange genre of life must the third world be, their struggle is the choice of some elite same as ours, sitting as pantheon gods far off and removed from their people. They're without technology. Is that our only difference? Ability to act and communicate… does ability orient the world? Luck? Greed? Loneliness? What motivates this fucking place, the good ands the bads of it… and is that morality just mine… or do each have their own way? Is there an optimal way to be?

Is there a god who judges? Or does that fall to me to decide.

To not know is a kind of cage.

How disgusting and corralled we all are.

How little we can see, how little we want to…

I lay in bed, covers half off, staring up past my hand at the dim, sun speckled ceiling, a twilight veil granted by curtains. The sun’s barely touched the horizon. Must be close to 6. Fingers flex, and knuckles crackle into wakefulness within a loose awareness, the hand drawing slow and unknown, imaginary symbols into the space above. A fan whirs gently overhead, the birds outside begin their chants of war. The buzz of traffic has yet to crescendo. This is the closest man can get to peaceful nature in a city. Not today though, I leave this peace to the birds.

Darkness overtakes us once again.

Drifting back to sleep on sultry clouds of satin sheets… I dream of righteous slaughter. Blood to staunch the burning! Blood to drown the tyrants! Funny that delusion, to save the people. Liberation! Grow up.

These people beg to be mistreated. They need their abuser like a mothers tit, somebody to give them the illusion of a fight, rebels are just kinky broads who need a beating to get off. They would rather be enslaved. Soft, weak, uneducated. Their every act a spiteful waste of resources. I see more good in rats than most mankind. One human of worth for every million? Bit optimistic. Endless drones of mindless filth desecrate the waking world. Slaughter would be merciful to drudge as damned as these.

The tug of empathy, symptom of the virus that is human. My living prison body. It seeks to corrode my impulse to kill, it tricks me to believe they can change. That they can be free. That they aren't what I know them to be.

Fail and be ineffective, refuse awareness, believe it awful chance when things go wrong. Honey, honey, honey… These tenants of humanity are the bricks that lead to hell. We all know you play victim. We all know that you’re sick. But don’t worry, lovely. I can look my evil in the eye.

Look in my eyes! Wanna see how fucked we really are?

This calm, bile ridden philosopher, this voice sits perched atop my chest and pins me to the bed. Sometimes I catch his tendrils in my mind. Sometimes I wake up in his game too late… I fear what lie within me when I’m no longer there.

When people are gone, unconscious from drinking or concussed, in coma or even sleep; where do we go? We wake from this death every day but know so little of it. We ponder on our greater death, however… there’s a brief glimpse every rest, for those with minds to know and eyes to see.

Blood runs from my eyes and mouth, steady rivulets of crimson, I smile and none of them notice. I look them in the eye and I see nothing worth keeping alive. Itch… Itch…

Are they even alive under that skin of theirs?

I used to wake in shaking sweats but now I cry in merriment at the horror in my dreams, these worthless corrupt people, no more than screaming gristle shorn from bone. They think they’re oh so human while awake, if so then I must not be. Human. Funny how that’s used as a compliment between the peasants, funny in the sickest way.

Why do I think things like this… to grapple with the world and not take anything for granted? Is it that in order to truly know myself, how I feel, that it requires this level of moral scrutiny?

What does it mean to be good?