Heresy of the Blessed
Forbidden, this failing stoop. Cracked artifice bludgeons a sway, and I, lone psychopomp, crunch whither for pay. I'd rather the gather that slathers all matter stop segueing as batter and begin to mend the bigger picture. The structure's not stricter. It's the fractures that blister, but no one is willing to give alms for balms' sake. They must have a take. A joy of pretend. There's no paying attention, nor listening. Just mend. Let's play “fix” to give praise. Let's corrupt their learned ways. Let's suggest with finesse there's more fruit with our sways. Let's not do a damned thing, but damn just for kicks. We can split, sort, and label, then confine what might mix. It's useless—the approved gist—All for One. One not all. How confounding, the pounding, that persists in doomed thrall. I resist to persist and elope what remains when story crafts affliction as addiction: ordained.
Written August 5, 2026. © 2026 AnOublietteofThought.
…
I know. I did say it unlikely I'd succeed. This is basically my response to an email. I, obviously, will not be sending it. It'd zip right over head anyway. Insert sarcastic end remark somewhere around ———-> HERE.