Who we are is a direct reflection of what orders we are given. I do what is scripted for me… a twisted plot conceived within the charred halls of my internal government. Here              the politburo schemes. Their assembly is not a secret, but their discussion surely is. Every day there are over a thousand alerts…signifying that another emergency session has been convened. An alarm as  clear as an annoying itch on the tip of a finger… the result                of  tracing  the worried path of an asperous brow… or as perverse as a redundant glance under the table…searching for anything  you may have dropped even though your pockets have always been empty.  When we respond with impotent anger, the complex simply laughs…pulling us deeper and deeper into our memory banks until we drown in the rising tide of a calculated mockery. Confusion becomes our confinement…to the point that we try and convict ourselves. In that moment, we must become. Grinding our teeth until they are as smooth as a saltwater kissed pebble or craning our neck to the side until                    the momentum of the heavy shame  forever slides away. Thru boycott, we have earned    the right to ask the question, “why?”…maybe someday thru revolution we will finally be answered with a reason.