and it all begins...

A fractured falsity. the counterfeit culture gains numbers, but a head count is not a thing more than a frivolous gesture. The maneuvers have gone all wrong, a skewed, off course. Where the fuck am I anymore? Lost amongst the players, the fanatics enchanted by this game, a rat-race that speaks as the facade for all our collected history of being, and what have we? Killing machines to drive us nuts with fuel costs, distractions that sound and look as a leper feels: absolute disintegration. Disregarded. aching in the midsts of a thought, confused by sight for sore eyes that see all that's not... but insistent that existence is there. Never here. Vibrating along the static sound of an out of tune existence...but it's all up to me to see beyond the far-reaching distance. Now. The shift must be made. It's the only hope, all other routes are burnt, singed by unconsciousness.