Here’s to the feelings,
Here’s to the intuitions.
Here’s to the hell of the mind
and the heav’n of the soul.
Here’s to the paradise, 
Here’s to great loss, 
Here’s to the feigned redemption,
and the darkness of human capacity.
Here’s to our body of postage stamps, 
ready to be sent and spent in life’s perpetual motion, 
- - - Scattered, torn, tattered - - -
Here’s to life’s little joys, 
and life’s tormenting sadness.
Here’s to thinking things through,
and to the gems of nostalgic waves splashing and receding, 
caught in time’s never-ending flux and flow. 
For all these things, I give a toast, 
to the loss of the individual, 
and the uncanny weight, 
placed on our rickety scaffoldings, 
creaking and ever swaying, 
but never falling.
Our chained up attitudes and white washed minds 
sticking out of the dirt like reeds on a beach,
popping out, barely seen. 
So here’s to progress, 
and the psychoanalytic,
whose own psyche is just as shattered as the rest, 
whose own inner self gives way to those little freudian slips, 
bobbing up and down out of the seas of the id and the unconscious. 
Here’s to the truth in them, 
and here’s to the cruelty and hypocrisy always present in human nature, 
and the burning sins that are waiting to be poked and prodded like a child with a stick, 
- - - only we are the children - - -
Here’s to the those who have been slapped on the hand, 
Here’s to the lost intuitions
and the cold-fired passions. 
Here’s to everything lost, 
wading in the slough of purgatory heavy and slowly dimmed,
trudging neck deep in the vestige of philosophies long past. 
Here’s to the unclear echoes and indications of the heavenly dynamo,
in which traces of piety and veneration only exist within the confines of the vile and the odious, 
- - - barred like a dove in an iron maiden - - -
Here’s to those sacrosanct reverberations, 
only now being uncovered from the catacomb of truth.
And here’s to solitude,
the greatest gift for self liberation 
in which equilibrium between passion and desire is met,
avoiding capriciousness and yet standing tall and vigorous under the weight of knowing that all is lost,
and that everyone around you is dead.
"The Toast" by Liv  (via nystagmia)