The anarchical skies under which we toil, our lives are despotically preordained, subordinated and manipulated to the most minute detail. In the umbra of the shadow of the gods of fantastic make-believe, we are instruments, automatons, reflections, silhouettes. We are pawns on a universal chess board. We are tiny puppets playing on a cosmic theatrical stage. However, the inevitability of the cortege of our macrocosm is evidently hurtling towards eradication, this apocalyptic pilgrimage towards doomsdom.
Reality is an illusion.
Truth is counterfeit. Beer is urine. Life is demented enough as it is. Why I haven't gone stark raving mad, I know not. But sometimes I wished I had.