Death to the King and All His Loyal Subjects

Ascending through the hive of the ancients, crafting candles of ethereal dissent, we are the heirs and masters to the grey throne of melancholia. We are so very worthless, and everything we do is meaningless. Towering, gilded, white pedestals erected in supplication to these raise'ed demigods, detached and preening with conceit. We are so very worthless, and everything we do is meaningless. Everything we've ever done--everything we'll ever do--is meaningless. Attend our needs. Servants, lie in debasement, sustained on the crumbs of pseudo intellect, dime store wisdom disguised as politico philosophy. The illusion of ideology. The imposition of precious ego. No room for opposition. One view rules all. One view ruins all. What was once a strength is now an affectation, a glamour cast over unsuspecting acolytes. But straddling mystery and candor leaves the bloody lips exposed. Reticence abandoned. Mythos dismantled. Blustering malcontents, so pedestrian, so very mundane. Childish bores talking and talking and talking in circles. Oh, you treacherous swine. Self entitled scum hiding in the fog of poverty, the veil of the oppressed. Self righteous ire. Self absorbed privilege. Self aggrandizing dribble. Tribulations contrived amidst vacillating abstraction reeking of guilt and greed. Fecund ambivalence from ostentatious parasites. Deluded vanity inextricably entwined. Instability, insecurity. Flagellants revealed. We are so very worthless, and everything we do is meaningless. Go now to the scourge pits to atone.