Thrown astray,
Is it true that my very existance is mere illusion,
and this temprid air that fills my lungs so fully,
is yet another carnation of nothingness?
The very nothingness inwhich all things bloom?

Cast away,
That scornful look so disapproving, so ill content.
They play with celluloid things,
and so they become a Celluloid Thing,
That is their punishment.

Extinguish your aching heart,
buried so deeply behind your sheilding guise,
of concieted arrogance;
For you played with brass,
and so you will become Brass,
and that is your punishment.

You toiled with living things,
and so you will become a Living Thing,
so much so that you feel dead.
You stood in the rain,
as it fell from monochrome skies,
and so you will taste the tears as the fall,
from Celluloid Eyes.
That is your punishment.