A struggle that is not my own, antiquated with a mythos before our rise, a collective that shares in its triumphs and failings, both from within as from without, the journey is predicated upon the mass, the battlefields worn upon the deep recesses, the psychic folds of grey matter, encapsulated by tooth and bone, extending out upon the quaking firmament that gives grace to our step, the stories intertwine, the capillaries dilate with bloody rage, from father to son, mother to daughter, the stagnant pool germinates indiscretion for the wicket and the sane, to gaze into its viscous reflection, emanating from the source of conscious relation, is to face the false prophet, to question its method, the boatman readies the oar.

– Josh Fleming


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