What can once be written as the fortitude of possibility, of hope and dreams, of beauty in its uncertainty, is now tainted by the blaring horns of reality--relentless in tone and strength. "An evanescence of perceived good," one might say, though it's hard to diminish that which never was. In such foreboding times pride makes for an awful crutch, yet it wouldn't do much to idly stand in place. No, it's important to project happiness at all times--for this world, albeit limpid in its intention to be rooted to the ground, seeks only to float among the clouds.

I.E. - Fuck this.