"You can kill a lifetime without feeling anything but skin."
- chuck palahniuk
Apathy. Skin pulled taut over skin, stretched and leathered by time. Resembling little but eggshells glossed into a hard veneer to preserve our own yolk. Brittle and flaky as any empty promise.
A thick polluted smog of apathy hovers over Tinseltown silently choking the life out of star chasers, fame seekers, and bottom feeders. Two-bit schemes laid to waste on a boulevard of broken dreams. The haze of disillusion a mirror you can't escape, reflecting back all the hollow ambitions that wilted in the burning sun. Days turn into weeks, then months to years, and all the while sitting idle, waiting and craving that golden ticket. Starry-eyed hustlers counting degrees of separation on puckered fingers, the indelible mark of dissoluteness on the skin the only sign they ever existed.
Cocooned from our own wasted failures, we spin and thrive within our own silk casings, trapped in a web of self-deceit, burrowing deeper into indifference, hoping time will metamorphose us into something else, someone else. But can a ghost ever become a butterfly?