There is no answer for anything of uneventful relativity.
We waste our moments, pushing a ball of dung up a hill.
How happily we engage in the demolition of the senses, almost as if we wish to forget who we are.
And never be remembered.
At this point, we have a tonal mix of dire consequences.
We have colours that obfuscate our understanding of reality so that, in effect, we live in a virtual dream ( a double negative of non-reality that makes it real).
We have the hibernation of our sensibilities.
A characteristic absence of feeling.
We live in the darkest sessions of the world’s adjustments to seasonal disorder.
Our emotions are a reflection of the external appearances they claim to be their own.