Every moment. bereft. 

Time stop and motionless vision.


Imagine death of a person, of a complete resemblance to your teacher at high school. In this manner of speech of a language completely foreign to the writer's daily life, a word feels almost an euphoria and cinematic residue; but alas. A recall of past.

The reject of society, of acquintance. A death of young and collect, in against the teacher, dismissed as addiction of entertain. Visual peripherals we call games, the modern root source of violence.

In its ignorance.

Of particular race, and romance towards elders and familial piety, religious morale compass and all that is righteous. Lim, Lee, names of short syllabics, 
" to be righteous is to do A B C D E" while to be against it, as the (name american and asianly) persay is to "say something black and offensive". Sometimes the comedic value we perceive as common sense felt almost fictional and comical.

"Yo, yo, why preserve the old ways! Let's (rap) the new year and bla"

A confide of modern with the intent of reject towards the old, almost perverse. But the name is local and foreign, feels almost like a comic intent, or perhaps the media is but a mirror of the society's common sense?

As life fleets away and death mounts without clarity, the purest of souls almost feel like a fleeting of reality... like stories of Death reapers and competing blood sport of young guys and gals, but replaced with

giant irons and blades swinging in names deities and mountaining shapeless ideas. To call democracy, but it is actually the need to speak vulgar, To call communism but it is actually neurosy of control, to call theism, but it is actually the luck of pure black gold and merit of trading.

Bad business to bring uncountables.
But the mental illness is mere names put on the societal, made of collectives capable of hurting in wild manners, like superheroes failing to measure violence but still presents mass euphoria and entertainment in gil suits and jazzy pornification of death and saluted victory.

The children has not grown but merely a dust to the large world.

But if the waking life were to be a short expanse... maybe the cinematic is to be won, even at the cost of what is societally kind or meritful. The personal and the crowd was never connected, as how the rice and rations does fill the crowd's belly when one eats.

The only thing noble is the idea to connect, almost like a farfur of fashioned mental illness and psychosis perfected desire of completeness, it ends up as a morally decay business enterpreneurship to collect the crowd and have it cannibalize its own...
Like the death of the child by the visual candy, against the higher member.

And in its presentation of superheroism and failed detective.
It cannot blame racial but except its own universal deceit it came to wear as a means of justice.


And so, the death and decay evolves as much as the common sense allows.

Whatever magic that is that anyone with a collect set of human organs and senses allow in it, where any profit is of another's destruct.