Incineration of soul with antagonism often credits the incredible insufficiency of my material sociability. Sometimes, it’s really hard to survive the inessentiality of a stupid “mob” especially when you know incongruous codes of their guises and play. They are all self-trained thespians of a floating opera; a masquerade enacted for material gratifications. Their lineaments are of folly and their masks are of self-declaring clowns of self-mockery. Polluted smiles from their hollow façade crucify my existential credos on the 'altar of "Frailty"', what 'he' once called. It is true that a dead fly causes the ointment of the apothecary to send forth a stinking smell.
“To see a World in a Grain of Sand And a Heaven in a Wild Flower Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand And Eternity in an hour…”