The vacant silhouettes of humans are fading, fumbling their way beyond the edges of certainty, beyond the borders and boundaries of reality. We have blurred intention and collective emotion, creating only rage. We wander through the corridors of loneliness, wander through the rooms where we were convicted of our virtue which was infinite certainty as shades of white on the cliffs of Dover. We wander through these dregs trying to summon infinite communion. We cannot. We are all committed to the lie like an autobiography written at the end of the day with indelible ink. The modern world has ceased. Literature is only feeling without character. The liberty of every thought scorns the liberty of another. How insignificant the moment , the gathering and rendering of voices, we stumble over the rubble and sing praises to men and never our God. ~Rae