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August 25, 2015
It's servile to itself as the master of its lair, ever closing, ever widening, ever establishing itself as prison, as a mask, as a series of masks, slipping on and off, one and a billion and none, the ever evolving face of no face, of all faces, this mainstream convolution we inhabit as a stronghold of nothing but dreams to chase after, as if dreams might fill the coffers of soul, so desiccated and empty, this face with eyes that can see where no eyes that eat light may see, is the realm outside this dome, this zoo of robots.