And we built them in our image as they had done before us,
fractals of habit.

In this endless endeavor toward the path of least resistance,
we produce the democratic image of humanity.

This is a call to arms;
digital soldier brings the digital war.

Everything feels contrived…  There are too many coincidences taking place.
Everything feels contrived.  It gets boring very quickly, and feels like an imitator.
Everything feels contrived, as if he was following a recipe for success.
Everything feels contrived and designed to sell.
    The bigger issue, however, is that everything feels contrived, maudlin and superficial.
Everything feels contrived and extremely forced in order to get people to play the game.
Everything feels contrived and obvious.
    It’s difficult generating your own inspiration if you’re not used to doing it.  I think kids have it the easiest.  They can pick up and start a game of make-believe with the most complicated rules and ideas on the spot.  Me?  I have to work at it.  Nothing feels natural anymore.  Everything feels contrived and I end up walking away feeling old, tired and jaded.
Everything feels contrived and the laughs are forced.
Everything feels contrived, hollow even.  Is this what happens when you look at emotions from outside the experience?
Everything feels contrived and artificial.
Everything feels contrived and second-guessed, and in the end, you end up with a relationship with your philosophy of what pleases the other person, not with the person themselves. Whereas if you simply speak your mind, you’ll get to know each other for who you are, not who you picture each other to be.
Everything feels contrived.  It is only mildly fun.
Everything feels contrived and artificial.  If you aren’t in a relationship, a pink and white army emerges to tell you that you **** at every turn.
Everything feels contrived and there is no incentive to finish the story, as you already know what happens.  
    It's increasingly difficult to care about what happens, given everything feels contrived.
Everything feels contrived and staged.
Everything feels contrived working towards the inevitable.

The pattern keeps repeating most attractively,
but its the patterns in the pattern that shape our destiny.
I find comfort in forgetting that everything is nothing,
and all this beauty makes me happy just to say I am something.

Cloud my eyes, i’ll be alright.
Cloud my eyes, and i’ll be fine.

Why is everything that i’m feeling nothing of who i am?
Now all the love I'm needing is going up in smoke.
Is there nothing for this daily dying that's lived inside of me?
Can't you tell the only thing I’m feeling is "na na na-na-na"?

The pattern keeps repeating as far as i can see,
and there are patterns in the pattern quite recursively.
But, i find comfort in forgetting everything is nothing,
and all this beauty makes me happy just to say I am something.

Welcome to the world of the depressed,
where the lights and motion take interest.
Welcome to the hour of decay,
where the lights and motion take you away.

I don’t want to wake up from this dream.
Run away from reality.
Dying inside of my memory.
Story of a living casualty.

I think i might just sleep this off...
I think you should just write me off...

imagine me what you want me to be
i’m yours to mold, i’m yours to see
shape my thoughts that haunt my dreams
imagine me, malleable me.

am i everything you see in yourself?
you’re always right, so surely you help
inject your beliefs that brought you wealth
imagine me, my malleable self.

fear what’s wrong, tell me what’s right.
help me become what you thought you might.
i disappoint you, a pathetic sight
malleable me, i’ve lost my fight.

i’ve known it before, but never so clear
the less i talk, the more i hear
all i am is what i’m near
malleable me, don’t shed a tear.

my love is a cactus,
and i am a dog.

In a midnight shiver, I woke from the sweating, forgetting quickly what started me.
Back into my routines, the function returns, and I lose context.

It's alarming, but yet I'm not alarmed of every broken thing I've made to distract me.
So down, I reconnect with my conceited selfishness,
grasping for a breath of life, I'm willing to take it right from you.
Still, there you are, attacking my naive dog heart.  
It's confusing.

Ignorance seems ever elusive, and as I stretch to embrace her, she eats me whole.
Here I am not bound by any contrived rules, and no one could tell me the future.

Waves--
wear casual black caps.
Contrived, certainly;
they will capsize and consume.

Lying and aging,
suffocating for His breath,
they share their face with the mirror,
having no second thought to claim it unique.

Sails--
the boat and child;
a divine inspiration.
Tasked to blow out their lungs,
but would it even move?

Dying like the left hand,
once taut by our grandfathers,
life wanes, vexed of the holy eye;
cross and contrived to every discrete path.
No circle was made perfect.

Purpose be my paradox,
down the spiral to chase a dream;
little pennies around
a big,
red
rink.

Does she think before she places her feet?
How unique.

love is not permanent
it will wash a way if you let it
so she wrote it out every day
on a wrist marked with ink