Stretcher of horizons,
Hear my hollowed call
Scoff at the notion your hands are mine,
That these hands are mine
And how many hands is the horizon wide?

As I lift my eyes to see
Another one lays down their head to sleep
As I drink the plastics down
The plastic fills the sea
Plastic, which would make sense.
And as one of my cells undergoes apoptosis
An innocent soul is deceased.

But convenient, how convenient for you
That even though I know what apoptosis is--
A rare piece of knowledge to find in some random person 's repertoire
That i would not be afforded some kind of great prize for my knowledge,
That i should have to live as I do,
Small and appreciated in ways that wrinkle my nose
As the other half of me cringes and admonishes not to complain too much
Lest we forget the vibrant tones the virtuoso singer of reality played within our cortex just today.

And how strange it is, that even if I were afforded some great prize,
Well what is the danger in that?
Are we scared that it would not be enough
To ward off the suffering?
How many hoarded memories can we pile up before they collapse in on themselves,
Causing the faerie guardians of the Earth to lose their minds in a frenzied panic,
Causing all the ghosts of the dead to bemoan the futility of my private existence,
Rupturing Spirit itself, which howls like a lost wind at the edges of the universe,
Spiraling out of control and so far from the warmth of life,
Forced to be a stranger to itself in the grand scheme of nothingness,
To which it can tell it is intrinsically linked?

How many memories?

Well, as it turns out,
We got quite a lot,
But they're not all good.

And many of them are sort of just alright.

It's almost like we were rendering something grandiose
But bit off more than we could chew,
And our computer crashed two-thirds of the way through
And so much of what we intended to be rendered was corrupted,
Like I was misused and abused.

But by who? As I waste my time,
Thinking it a feat?

Is there anyone else to take the blame but myself?

For all the world's sins!? No, surely not, are you insane!
your sins, your sins, my child
You say,
Are all I ask you to atone for.

And even that is just a matter of perspective,
Maybe you believe in science.
But science just means knowledge and at this point I think you understand.

Don't put yourself on a pedestal,
Or inadvertently dream up a pedestal and find yourself atop it,
Get blamed for that,
And tear yourself down.

Now it's falling apart again.

We're only in this for the rotation.
Stand ready for automatic accusations,
Yes you made excuses yes they will jump out of your mouth.

Maybe they will never come,
Maybe it was just the feeling they would.

Automatic, all of it,
Can't take the pain away.
Why must we do this to ourselves?
No, we aren't, it's some other party some outside force
The universe
No it's not me
Not me
Not me