Lacking sounds of awareness.

a silent thrill possesses, and houses that redemption urge to quote the sayings of others as a blanket cure for the assailing moves that those harsh and wasted hands have placed before us all… the disarray becomes too much to tolerate decently enough… the broad critical affliction that caters to the distinctive craving to feel the bristling knife edge against the skin, that bobbing-weaving state where the light-headed sway gives in to adhering to certain rules of judgment, those passing inane statements to describe the mercurial inspiration… from lingering, ephemeral idea into the manifest reality to partake of the path unique among all others… we might sit Here sedate, and wanting for something other than ourselves to feed it, complaining that the worthless is the most fundamental particle yet within a machine that feeds from us anyway… the resistance does seem futile, both to observe from this outside perspective, and to involve and cross that imaginary line drawn inside the mind… the choice to direct oneself through the din of narrow voices… an ungrounded fluttering whispers strange things into the creative mind like a clockwork orange ripped apart for the juices that push that subtle fluid motion into action, the pulp left of what had to have been there to leave, and still where it can do the most for other beings yet to see…

Thanks, khet.