Stephen Walker MacDougall

To a world which knows not its place, but culminates incessantly upon itself for the sake of only, whole heartily itself. No voice will be heard, now script is gold, it is worth, the only worth, a fabric though, of petulant girth. You need not hear the sound of a comment as it drops like destruction, the vision is just, if only a crutch. We, the petty, we the nostalgic, we the unified bric-a-brac of timeless ease, bear not the burden that we should but become the family of Gods most timeless sleaze. How then does the Godless trend, remove itself for the likeness spent, yet unrepentant to mend, nor the ungrateful repent.. Make art for the goal, not the gala. Live life for the weight, not the time. A Manifesto infested with night and with day, proved the outcome we have not meant, which we the unspoken, would not dare not say.