The record pauses and skips and emits a note it was never meant to play, forcing us into that fleeting groove, closed over, a neutered consciousness waiting for another odd, crackled gasp that may never come.

Most people have not only drank the kool-aid, they have mixed it with the sexual secretions of their brood and spread it all over their writhing bodies, infiltrating their every crease, crevice and orifice, boring out their insides until they are but a husk with only enough moisture to drool in dependent, delicious rapture.

Of free will…my thoughts argue against and prove it true…my actions for and false…all a pleasure…to what may be…the senses.