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April 4, 2020
Not out. In. Valueless conscriptions to an astral enterprise gathers flotsum and jetsum threads of a phantom we clutch as real, hold as dear, creating images to seal its illusion as reality. Bowing ceaselessly, we only end up hurting our backs. Eyes dip to a floor that knows only shuffling feet. What may we do to fixate on us? Time honored webs afix myriad gears of lies in a vast machine. Such a fuddle. Clapped down to this harsh reality, astral resolutions keep time with traditions screaming from ancient, musty texts. At least it gives the dust something to do.