Today is a pale day, A grey day. But that is not why it is pale. It is pale because it is colorless, another drop in the bucket. My inadequacy grows symmetrically with my own dissatisfaction. And I am shelled with explosive thoughts all derivative and predictable. For the loose sand that I sift through my senses creates a thin mask of foundationless kernels. All the candy is wrapped up in bright packaging to attract the eye and disguise the paltry nutrition within; an old, worn out evolutionary trait used supposedly to search for new food sources. And I am left ever conscious trapped by my own logic in the new paradigm that is lonely and empty. Sometimes I wish I lived before all our great wars, back at the height of aristocracy. When we all lived by the romantic images of our minds and men made change by god inspired will. As the world was much larger then; so large that we could ignore it’s vast esoteric workings and rest comfortably in our own intuition. Whether the world is material or immaterial is irrelevant and meaningless. I only want to know whether it is mine or isn’t. Is my stake in this world or is it’s in mine? Is my destruction my choice, or his? And even this is irrelevant in the end because it has no purchase on my actions anyway. The fact is I feel as though I’m in control and all scientific fact points in the opposite. And so today is pale, again. And my life feels empty, until another brief glimpse in to the shadow of teleology passes through my sensorial geodesic and I am wrenched headlong back into comfortable narrative. I am the waffle ******. I own the waffle. And I wander down along the dotted time line with my blinders on, occasionally slipping on the balance beam and smashing, crotch first, into the irreconcilable and incomprehensible night of entropy. Ever circling back through all my fancy “knowledge” and landing again on the feet that my father gave me. Coming, once again, to the sanctimonious and systematic pattern of myself, I lay unawares, viewing only through a pinpricked hole, into the wasteland of the real. I am left only to gape in awe at the persistence of my dream.