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stochastic

a culture of procrastinators can’t be all wrong all the time Here because all of these people are pursuing and consuming a conscious curiosity like nobody’s business a commodity built out of random habits and whims as primordial devouring spirit, as we take a casual information too personally like an offense leveled against us allowing in for the retaliation of sorts in tone and absurd logistics to catch the opposition off-guard thusly tricking into response whatever reaction as desired, but are we really more powerful with a mask of control bestowed upon us as temporary visage of authority in its willful chaos taking drastically the impetus to move mountains erratically about as the tensions and pressure collect inside of these aged tectonic plates technically in-feasibly open by human means alone?… even the subtle microscopic moves require their means to an end somewhere down the trail of all paths previously wandered as a diversity dividing and conquering with a sense of well-versed exclusivity, in a computational linguistic trade-off to promote the growth in this arid desert of the real filled to the brim with all kinds of metacharacters as a mechanical nature to the thought-form in as symbolic a lifespan as we have as people, but the curiosity never ends there when Mankind breaks down and becomes something else altogether as the story creates itself to weather all kinds of temporal storms that matter only to the timeframe in which they are used… programming our damned DNA strands like sands in time running rand with stones of irregular shape and size minus a method or conscious decision on our part as we daze into the sunshine blindness a little while longer so the metadata can sink in deeper, sitting across from our consciousness in trance while the tasks loom greater than we have ever fathomed before missed in our daily grinding away of self as raft through this social rift in attempts to reinforce who we were as we dance across the surface of this thing one moment after the other, but talk of this kind always makes me lust for wonder aloud about how do we even know what we think we know to be a fact or feat of merit when laze of the easiest inspiration comes at those sporadic seconds either gone or lived…

Thanks, khet.