" in wolves clothing it eats itself "

when the price of hate stoops below the cost of fearing what we hate, the algebra there says we are want to hate; to make ash of the oppressive narrator of our western life, and our global reality. when the impetus to burn it down is greater than the fear, we dislodge instruments from their encased and contented slumber. when we find out the champions of our hate have run out of grain, we know that they eat themselves, because they know that the shit we shovel is in the end the same; to them, the architects that is, we represent strife the same way a wrong turn represents a crash- whats past the corner is beyond the edge of the earth.

but us? we stayed long enough to notice. we won't install self loathing, or even resentment at the pure truth, that hatred and indignation are in this case inseparable. when we fucking die nobody notices. herein is a justification for taking you with us: part 1- a manifest that includes a violence so innate that we cannot capture it in weak prose or brutality through music. what the violence has imparted, if not dedicated in us, is that if we aren't in control of even the smallest elements of what we deserve, no longer is our relationship with your idea of right and wrong prudent. the columns of this fucking stupid babylon can be kicked down. the entrenched are no longer just emboldened- we are on fire. If you do not think that we can flail and screech while still wanting off this ride, we don't care. we know how you engineer oppression. the fact we appear powerless towards it is not truly relevant. that's the nature of it. when you have the power to envelop all of the above and also the power to label it, the ponzi scheme will be exposed no matter how much we scream it at you. but we will scream it at you until you admit that what eats itself isn't really a function of societal bleeding or even death, and that when one day it does catch up to someone, somewhere, we will have been so right. these are words, yes, these are songs. but you're now in a state where you've been challenged to show your work. it won't happen. you cannot engineer a system that will leave enough of us contented to the point of somehow not screaming and burning up, and you believe you write narratives still? it eats itself and it's nakedly obvious. you can't love like we can, and even in total death will that remain factual, violent, ugly reality. we see beauty. in between these fits of hate, even with the knowledge that you have lit the city on fire so we cannot take it, we will live rent free in the minds of everyone who won't understand
and to those that do, we love you, and to the point that words cease to matter