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Do we find ourselves apprised of every excruciating detail in losing wit? Only through time do answers make themselves available; a veritable sea of understanding and yet the simple, so far obscured as to hinder progress. Do we not find that it fails us, the brain -- some twisted fate that our understanding is too broken by the very same. Fault, blame, truth, deception, a repertoire of philosophical constants or constraints, milestones; broken by obfuscation. The mind, a vat, a receptacle for variance. I find myself often lost in this thought as my brain parses the notion of definition, can one be defined as it were. Are we simply without firm enough basis to dictate a pattern? A sickening means to a sickening end, as if as a proof of concept I exist neigh,we. The returned refraction finds me under a different hue, a belief in neither extreme, perhaps a shade of gray. That was always her or the part she played, to some end a demise to some effect an escape from the polar pattern of discouragement. For you perhaps an effort is justifiably explained, maybe that's grand. While the individual man is an insoluble puzzle the grandeur of humanity reveals a pattern which was to be expected, to that end: in the aggregate, he becomes a mathematical certainty. Like an arsonist to a flame, I find myself drawn to writing the manifest of decline. In Icarus' fall, we see the ideology folded, to come close is to exist on the verge, much like the certainty of the great cedars falling parallel to the cerulean sky, so too will the ground beneath existence on the verge. Time is linear and mine not dissimilar to yours is close to the terminating point. Oblivion to which does not grant the extension before the formidable plunge. Are we not ineffectual as these tides turn. To some end, this exists a mental holocaust. As the decay is brought forward by the pusillanimous the lines for distinction become indistinguishable in their basic ambiguity. Are we not culpable, not by some gross negligence of thought, though improbable the notion is likely no more a catalyst for the former than preoccupation to rumination.
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