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Runners or are we the Ran?

In a time of the wired, selfish ego, when the status quo boils over and the surface of All is smothered in scalding black windwater, when Runners run on oil and tears, and the Ran forever weep, and the vote is measured in dollars and the voice of one is void of matter, where does one place trust? When the voice of the King, cooing even while talking death and worse, coldly says “In Me!”, how can one agree?

When the Runners run on oil, green, tears, the shallow din of their chorus only aggravates the sensitive minds of the Ran. The Party is waning, enervated and cool, and the endless aching perspectives once more vie for the impossible Pedestal of Truth, blinded by the light of Thoth atop It.

They will all of them purport to be true, claim victory, but they eat their own tails until there is nothing left; only the vast endless aching perspectives all strewn about and the overwhelming possibilities of existence.

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