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 dream.
We have the hibernation of our sensibilities.
We have a characteristic absence of feeling.
We live in the darkest part of the world’s seasonal adjustment disorder.
Our emotions are a reflection of the external appearances they claim as their own.