O the simplicity of cynicism. O the depth of faith. A critical step is one without intention.

Who am I, and who are you, to adapt to blindness? to trust in momentum? to push until made numb? Because we’re all singing songs about nothing, and there is a certain Something counting again the steps to your front door.

Every truth is self-evident. Every road we travel was laid in front of you and me.

It’s time to realize that we can’t do a thing, that our wages are death, that our own virtues are as useful as dirty rags, and that perfection is merely is a word that we teach.