“In the Eyes of Cynical Men”
Angst sprouts from the scalp of a cynical man as silver locks of a vanishing soul. Preserved are his judgments for a deaf god, by which he struts in sacrifice upon the soils of scorn. He is a walking shadow upon a stage of tales told by the utterance of fools, and his tongue swells by the intervention of his conscience so as not to dismember such fiends with his serpent of gawking eyes. The world trickles from his fingertips into the ensnare of Kharybdis, and his guffaw of pleasure eases her fastidious appetite. He smirks at those whose claims spume perfumes of the common aroma of unprecedented qualities and quintessential authority, for by heart he has memorized the will of God's vociferous hands that emulsify the ingredients of paragons. He fears nothing, he recycles his breath in dislike of that of which his foes consume, and his power is augmented by the plentiful vexation of others. It is the mind by which he was gifted that receives no fracture by the dares of mankind. He is the one that they cannot defeat, and he knows it. A cynical man welcomes the wrath of God in purpose to spite the sentence of life. Angst is a control of cognizance. It is a game beyond the capabilities of men dressed in kingly tunics who stumble upon security in the gardens of infinitesimal pebbles on the grounds of limitation by which this game is played. Blood is drawn not by he who is acquainted with the most sin, but rather by he who understands how to use the most sin so as to become acquainted with another upon the moment of their final dying breath. The cynical man has signified nothing, but has amplified what only cynical men may become. Being a man of excessive character withers that character into the enemy of its original self.
-Francesca Mildred Gualano
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