Man, a junkie scratching at the scabs of history, digging for the bone beneath the plaster. 

Also Man, a junkie for clean hands. His story a wet dream of innocence, a snow job centuries deep. Violence, the original sin, painted over like a cheap whorehouse facade

History, a junkie’s needle, tracks the red line of violence. A mainline into the heart of darkness.

Ages of red, raw fact scrubbed clean, painted over with angel piss and unicorn smiles. Violence, the old, faithful whore, always there, but hidden behind a veil of cotton and lies. 

Every conquest, a fresh coat of whitewash, every revolution a new shade of denial. We are the ghosts in the wallpaper, the screams muffled by centuries of silence.

They paint it white, these pushers of progress, slick with lies like a cheap fix. Empires built on blood, scrubbed clean for the schoolbooks.

We’re a species of housepainters, dabbing whitewash on the crimson canvas of existence. Every masterpiece a lie, every brushstroke a denial. We’ve built a world on denial, a tower of lies reaching for the antiseptic sky. And at the top, a god in our own image, a porcelain doll dripping with the blood we refuse to see.

Every conquest a fresh coat of whitewash, another lie to nod off to.

Violence, the original sin, buried deep, but it seeps through, red stains on the soul of civilization.