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April 5, 2014
There's a kink in the tumbling works, a falsehood in the body of the manufactured matrix we call the home of our beginning, not seeing the sense of ending, let alone the progress of our path being a dynamic wanting mutable words to garb its delicacies, the entrails being fond encroachments on the development of who we might become, not who we've been, jetting past who we are, that cusp called the present, that infinitesimal prick on the fabric of beingness among an infinity of pricks, like diamond eyes gleaming from the technicolor dream-coat, staring us down, condemning lies.