trapped in the red shift, the eternal paradox
you cast out love for some weird lust with a girl from nowhere at a midnight hour.

you push that sex impulse like a machine.

it's a chemical virus you can't tame or inoculate

it's life energy depletion for a moment of bliss

addicts usually over dose

when the parasitic compulsion overtakes the host

killed by a red witch, unsympathetic magic you bleed out like a phase 

on infertile ground feeding impossible flowers

only the fool and the hanged woman know what it's like to go out swinging.

ah here comes the cold propulsion engines, giving panther mountain by improvisation.

it's all made up of dreams and illusions, that's what they say, eventually you can weave them together and create whatever you want

but is it real or part of the simulation

the answer to that is

does it matter?