Human waste Protocol

Generation already in gangrene, a bunch of dummies advancing with their heads down, fueled by lies as a digital gospel.They don't know how to breathe... they recycle dead air.Shells without a soul. Devoured by blind progress, which drags everything into the abyss, and calls it evolution.I love to spit on their peace fake. I have pleasure in seeing them hanged with the nothingness they venerate.I will never be part of their cult of resignation:Their temple is made of bricks of desperation, depression is devouring them.My survival instinct wants to encounter primordial darkness, a black that tears apart the illusion.Theirs is a regression of the spirit, they are just shells.I advance against the current,I am the voice that rapes your conformism.When they find themselves faced with nothing, I will stay there, to remind them who decided the path of their fall.