Hope is like ichor, a weeping film coating the squirming sanctimony of ambition. When one weeps hope, they become steeped in it, tannins infusing bitterness into their very marrow, but because the wound cannot clot, the process is a carcinisation, and the continued production of this vile goop requires great metasticized organs, entirely new processes dedicated to manufacturing the substance. One does not simply hope, many hope. And who hopes for the hopeless? A demon with a human face. This demon is suffering incarnate because without the bitter wounds, putrid beyond belief, they would be unable to fester and propogate. They would simply consume all resources and die out. I hope. Everyone does I assume. But suffering begets no hope in my instance, just resolve. And then what do I hope for? That we can continue to hope at all, free from this industrialized sociological parasite.

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