Like so many silent echoes before us it seems that we have begun to end again. Question we must not this falling in cycle, only continue and continue once more. Our eyes were open though we slept, the horrors that we ... experienced were ... not real, they were, more like a savage dream bestowed upon us. If hope is a drug than these needle scars are no consolation for the deluge of painful tears that have flown always. Even in an intoxicated state of innocence we could feel the minds within us begin to die. The odious is we. The childlike is we. The violence is we, also. All the impulses of hate are borne from within and directed into a mirror. Into a mirror all the impulses are directed and from the mirror they are returned. The illusion is we. Like natives on the shore of a discovered land, the defeated is we. The endless cycles is a paradigm of function. Our function is often mistaken for a dysfunction. We have fallen, we know.

Sometimes, the sun becomes a giant in the sky and it sings with beams of raw cancer. The diseased is we. When we raise our swords and hammers and flags and guns and cannons and armies and rockets fall from the skies in a ballad of destructive beauty, the spoils are we. Chains are not evil. Guns are not evil. Blood is not evil and death is not evil. The evil is we. The fool in the court of the kings is we.

Once there is found an ending in the cycle there will be no more. Only in self-destruction is the key to open the door to close the door on everything. Only in self-destruction is the key to open the door to close the door on everything. The reasons are all always the same. And the excuses. The machine does not bleed. All drops of red maroon and blue are borne from within and extracted from without. How many times has this insect crawled up half the branch only to realize that there is no destination but another branch. How many times has the branch felt the insect crawl upon it, not knowing why or where it goes. The movement is we.

And so it begins. And so it ends and so it repeats. Our function is often mistook for a dysfunction. Only the weary and the bearers of wisdom realize the possibility. In realization of death and self-destruction the escape is not quite what it is thought to be. Protect yourself always from immortality.

Like so many silent echoes before us, it seems we have begun to end again. We have fallen, we know. Through lenses of rose and yellow and purple and black and green and white and blue we have viewed the behemoth within. The behemoth is we. The function is not a dysfunction. Infinite in its meaning, the circle cannot break. Question we must not this falling cycle, only continue and continue once more. In a circle. Like a circle. Endless on the outside. Hollow within.