From the womb, a wet slap, a gasp in the sudden glare, a raw squall against the indifferent air. Blind fists flailing for a phantom breast, a primal scream against the cosmic jest. The cord severed, a lifeline undone, launched into the chaos beneath a dying sun.
To the tomb, a cold click, the final stone, the earth a heavy blanket, claimed as its own. The silence absolute, the echoes cease, a stillness profound, a counterfeit peace. Dust to dust, the ancient decree, swallowed by darkness, eternally.
The in-between, ah, that flickering, fevered space! A stumble through sunlight, a fall from grace. A riot of roses and razor wire, a desperate clutching at fleeting fire. The taste of cheap wine on a lover's sigh, the hollow triumph in a politician's lie.
Bonus, you say? A gilded cage, perhaps? A frantic dance in oblivion's gaps. The weight of the world on a fragile spine, the yearning for something truly divine. We chase phantom pleasures, fleeting and frail, like moths to a flame, destined to fail.
The neon bleeds into the grimy street, the saxophone wails a blues bittersweet. Each hurried footstep a frantic drumbeat, a desperate rhythm on life's worn-out mat. We claw and we climb, we laugh and we weep, while the pendulum swings from slumber to sleep.
Bonus? A cruel jest whispered in the dark, a fleeting spark against a dying arc. We build our empires of dust and despair, breathe in the exhaust of a world that doesn't care. Yet, in the cracks of the concrete, a wildflower might bloom, a defiant splash of color against the impending gloom.
So let us seize this bonus, this fragile reprieve, this chaotic ballet before we perceive the final curtain, the ultimate bow. Let the cheap thrills and the profound regrets collide, in this messy, magnificent, bonus ride. For from that first cry to that last drawn breath, it's all just a bonus on the highway to death.
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