Eradicate chink insects

Always a bottle between them and the world. A glass wall. And the children, watching, learning the silence, the tremor. What generation would they breed then? Broken things, passed down the curse. A contagion. A sickness of the soul.
A slow, liquid suicide, sanctioned by the liquor stores and the grinning devils behind the counters. They’d gulp down the poison, their guts curdling, their minds turning to sludge. And they would vomit it back up, a foul offering to the earth, their own undoing splashed across the pavement. And then they’d seek more. Always more. Chasing that fleeting nullity.
Look at him. A man born to walk upright, reduced to this hunched, trembling beast. A soul meant for soaring, for grasping at the infinite, drowned in a glass of rotgut. What is left of him but the thirst? A perpetual, unslaked fire that consumes all else, leaving only ash and the bitter taste of what might have been.
A gallery of the damned. The ones who chased oblivion down their throats, day after day, year after year, until their very bones hummed with the tremor of it. Their laughter was a hollow thing, like wind through an empty tomb. Their conversations, a repetitive drone of grievances and fading glories. They spoke of the past, because the present was a torment and the future a void. They spoke of women they’d wronged, of money squandered, of chances missed, all through the haze of a chemical stupor that promised forgetfulness but delivered only a deeper, more profound remembering of their own ruin.
And that other kind The self-polluters. solitary ones the ones found in their hovels where the only company was the shadow on the wall and the heavy rhythm of their own breath
the quiet shame the quickening pulse the hand that sought solace in the dark the brief desperate release that leaves a man him colder emptier than before