Silence is golden.
But I prefer to write.
But who am I? Just a brain in a vat.
The pen is mightier than the sword, yet the dagger is unnecessary when your enemies run for the hills. They are like squirrels in search of a chestnut they can crack.
People speak of loyalty, yet they do that for Instagram.
People want honesty, but they do not offer any.
People present their lives like a well-baked cake, knowing that they know the ingredients and that their followers also have purchased a Betty Crocker Cake Mix.
Fools suffer harm by accompanying other deluded companions. Indecision and security is the reason for their ongoing downward spiral.
They will not listen to reason, just the sound of jets as they take off from one destination to another - escaping the dismal reality they have created - incapable of remaining in one place for longer than a nanosecond because the foolishness of one’s actions may be dawn on them. Keep busy, they think. Maybe it is forgotten. How can the blind lead the blind and run into a recurring wall?
The clock ticks for everyone. Slowly but consistently.
People are like mice in the kitchen. You leave out a piece of cheese, and they think they will escape the traps.
Who are my enemies? They all fled. I am looking for a challenger, but I do not see one.
Who can I turn to?
It must be something more significant than I.
The fictitious showmanship masquerading as genuineness is as actual as the subject interpreting it.
Mirages shatter like mirrors.
Cowards vouch for other cowards, and the cesspool rises. The smell becomes putrid.
The nonjudgmental charlatans pass judgment in their no-judgment and subjective value assessments—the paradox pendulum swings. The days roll over, and one asks: how long will they charade? Mime artists usually get paid.
