There's something strange in the air, siren after siren sounding its deafening shrill. Fear, desperation; angst, anger; dread, desolation. We spend our lives pondering its meaning, and still we know nothing. Lost in a sea of debt, drowning deeper into destitution. Contradictions, extremes--a pledge repeated times over, losing its meaning more so each time. Promise is synonymous with convenience, and my word is just as good as his or hers. My voice, silenced by a multitude of billions.

Strength, truth. Fight for a cause that deceased to exist--no one cares in the end anyway. Pat yourself on the back, look in the mirror and say, "I'm revolting for the damaged and weakened." Then smell your intentions--they stink of rot and dead cells, look into a mirror and watch as death slowly but surely forms burrows, crow's feet with each passing moment, then tell yourself you're beautiful. Happy, happy, blissfully cheerful as others suffer. Turn off the news and sink into yourself--oh, that's too bad, it sickens my soul to hear of such calamity. But your soul was already diseased to begin with. And I thought you revolted against atrocity?

Light, transcendence. Self-transcendence, selfishness. Sorry is appropriate--wretched, useless. Selfless, depersonalization. Tornadic turmoil.

Darkness, dancingly so. Chaos, order. Everything has its place, or does it? What happens when space runs out--to the shute with what's considerably collateral damage, replacing it with what's bright, shiny, new.

Leaves are green until light decreases, and then beautiful shades of gold, orange, crimson, as darkness increases. One foot in white, the other in black, head in color. Stagnant, fixed; Unrelenting, barren; breathable, fruitful. Trillions.

I know a rose by its scent, thorns. Madness in lieu of insanity. Embracingly so, because when the mad are sane, it's verily so.