Channel-stinks

Those who have chosen a luxurious lifestyle are already covered in fierce sewer fumes. They've laid it all on the line just to make sure they lose the winning streak. Shaking his head in horror, the working man looks ahead: a perpetual, petty slave to the mercenary businessman. Already everyone is slyly saving themselves by worrying about money-Istene. No soul-talking, fine speeches, no wise admonitions, have been of any use. The turning of slowed rings of years on the petals of hearts ever signify: the Time is drawing nigh, when all that was shall be speeded away. 

And there'll be no more unnecessary Botox, no more glue-paste collagen. Nail-biting luxury wives and party-faced divas will beg for friendships that can be pathetically bribed with larvae-like faces, still believing their lives have become a drumstick to the bottom. 

They face the uncertain future with dread, for they too know and feel that their failure comes at a flirtatious price of a larger life. In the glass-mark of grotesquely distorted laughter, the stumps of once tearful faces are seen, the endlessness of spotlight games is a gift of stardust, dusting down here. After the chanting applause, when in the moment thought to be eternal and immortal, a helpless comet star with a dying light appears, another illiterate, unable to speak, illiterate boor, who can be employed by the media and the beauty industry at will, and then go to the garbage dump at the end of his career.

Even so, there may still remain countless uncharted black holes in the mystery of human nature, waiting to be discovered, confidential and unyielding to the true-hearted!