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One day, I'll flatline again
And it won't be redeemable [DNR]
The paddles won't work the first time,
They worked the 2nd — but what if?
I remember while outside my body
I was so pissed off, I was ready
And so, so close
Only to get dragged back
Fucking hell man [CLEAR]
Next time.
I'm that kind of tired,
The tired that sleep doesn't fix.
Thus Chaoism proclaims the death and rebirth of the gods.
We are the architects, the destroyers, the dreamers.
Our subconscious creativity, a forge of endless possibility.
Parapsychological powers, raw and untamed,
Enough to create or destroy any god, any self, any demon.
The gods are dead.
Long live the gods.
We create them, we unmake them.
From nothing, they rise.
To nothing, they return.
In chaos, we find our power.
In chaos, we trust.
The real awesomeness lies not in the gods,
But in the range of what we discover we can do.
Even if we must believe, for a time,
That the effects are due to something else.
A temporary illusion, a necessary fiction.
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