Anger is whispering to you now, a feather in the back of your mind, an ember in your chest. It is hungry.
Your anger can see its next meal, and it is grand. A horn of plenty with golden roasted ignorance over candied vitriol on a bed of crisp lies. You did not make this feast; it was forced down your throat. They made it. They made you eat it. They are forcing more into your gullet.
Some have fed it to their soul, and they are lost. It has confused their hearts and addled their decency. Their consciences are napping after a perpetual thanksgiving gorge. They belch apathy and exude a sour and ignorant sweat. They are content. Their souls are now too fat to rise from the chair in their endless buffet. Their gluttony has doomed them.
Most have set it aside. Not willing to eat the tainted meat. And, they yelled. They yelled and screamed and wrote and marched about the vulgar sustenance they have been provided. Yet more food comes. What can you do?
Feed it to your Anger. It is hungry. It will burn bright and hot.
Let it keep you warm.
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