Perpetually perpetrated

like something caught in your teeth all goddamn day. That annoyance, the clocks and gauges in flux against the tide of desire, forcing that wandering. Nothing of intrinsic value here, as easily lost as the scrolls that weren't. Just forced importance, impotent against the roaring media machine that has turned against its creator. The decade in flames, a warring empire on the cusp of its rebirth. Time to look ahead, turn inward. Need need to supersede in a new climate of self, or rather the separation. To reunite with the rest, a communal dream unheard of in these parts. Just keeps ticking, road and dollar signs.