The Boulevard of Broken Dreams

The Boulevard of Broken Dreams is choked with the dead, the rotting corpses that shuffle through shattered shards of rainbow with no purpose, cold to the touch. So many, they shift and scuff as one, fuel for the machine, food for the leeches, the corpulent dictators of life and art who wire reality with the framework of their silicon webs. Architects of the matrix of normalcy and expectation scuttle high above, never touching the ground, never touching the masses, but always keeping the dead from dying, from knowing peace. Like vampires, they weave their electronic nests, feeding off the dead, always feeding.

The dead never see the shine of their broken rainbows, never hear the scintillating chorus of their light. Their eyes are sunken and hollow, riddled with time, with stimulants and nagging fatigue. They cannot see what lays beyond the Boulevard, never look up to let their eyes catch rays of the warming sun or feel the gentle rain that patters on the faces of those who try.

I will not be one of the dead.

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