Machines.

Wicked are those machines, robots I dare say, who upon their mortal souls make judgements fair and square. Easily done by handbook and narrowly if ever dodged in dreams -- little respites despite our tender fraility.

And so wishes come forth in great abundance for something possessing something akin to the anti-monotony. Rebellion, some say? Nay, for always following inspiration are gloomy days; rather a grain like a feast or a drop from an ocean, for each. . .all can be satisfied by means of equation in this earthly place.

Philosophy and history are subjects attracted to dust. But for their trendy renewal, I see no point. Action breathes of motivation, and for what often leaves others at ill-ease; such a nicely spiced mantra, "just do it" sings the same tune for the furry kindgom, as does it for the birds and bees. Never seen is more decisive resolve than upon the lions claw as he pulls a gentle dinner into a fall. Upon which studies one curiously, as they themselves are food for the fungi, bacteria, and disease.

Abandon do many these clarities, sadly, for I say unto thee: The microscopic and galatic continue proving infinitely AN ABUNDANCE.

So for what and against whom exactly do we fight?

A grindstone, a waterwheel, subatomic particles, and gravity? As they cannot be stopped, their reality does weigh on me. Unto their duress, does my skin sag and my erection waver. . .my intent fails and emotion silently thunders. There is no enemy because the battle is already decided -- and where my bones will lay was once this living warrior.

Unbeaten by time, unridiculed by the sun, set free by night, to dream and dream of what is yet to become. My grease may be utilized daily by the clockwork, but my mind is free!