That Miserable Thought

I euthanized that miserable thought, that idea that reeked of the stench of rancid self-indulgence. I ran a spear through its heart and I severed its head. After a day, I threw the rotting corpse of that thought into a vat of caustic. The caustic was so incensed with the presence of the dead thought that it convulsively spewed a vaporous mist that melted the streams of air that carried it. The odor of melted air is so pungent that acrid tears form in the eyes and stream down the face in abrasive rivers, eroding canyons in the skin.