Tired, dead thoughts.

They rise from the dead you know, the shadows of feelings you once held dear. To be brutally honest, they never really die - and they always come back. You try and fucking try to lock that shit in a coffin and bury it deep within the damp earth. The black lumps of dirt sticking to everything, making the burial next to impossible; the dream that just won't die lying in wait for it's unmarked grave. Eventually, after much cussing and back that won't stop throbbing, you get the fucker buried nice and deep; and, while remnants of the feeling may remain, the painful truth is that even within the black clay and mud, the whole totality of the feeling has a beating heart, and the blood will never stop flowing.

It may take years, but clawing through that bargin-budget coffin top, hands caked with blood and rich earth - black tar dripping on every surface - it will break it's way from the shallow grave. No matter how fucking deep. A wise man once said, "You can't kill an idea," and the thought remains valid that, try as you might, you can never really destroy an idea once it's infected who you are - much less wipe it from the face of humanity. No matter how poor the idea, no matter how absurd, tedious, stupid, or irrational, you can not eliminate it from your life completely. The zombies walk, and they are coming for you, for me. Each and every one.

The idea already pulls at your heart, tugs at your soul, and burrows into your mind; but now it's returning for you; and destroy, or conquer, it will have you. It will have me. The idea is the last great virus. The thought is the last unknown. And the dream is the last, and only, thing which will never be fully destroyed.