There is a machine it's hands driven by no singular man nor collective of men but by the subconscious desires of whole societies, possibly by all mankind. It's will; perhaps passed on in our blood but I suspect a more devious actor at play. The augmented reality of language ****** upon us in our youth with such tyrannical force it makes the rule of King Leopold hardly a murmur in the heart of darkness. It's reason as noble as it is useful. It aims to connect; to help share the eloquent, heavenly images that reside behind our eyes in our most sincere and naked moments. Noble indeed are the intentions of language but they deceive, make it hard for our pupils to see what needs to be seen thus we live as Thoreau has said 'lives of quiet desperation' blind to what our hearts cry for in the black of our deepest silence. We deny them in the name of acceptance and comfort for the fear of failure wear upon us like a heavy robe. These words they echo such violent doubt and in days past I had triumphed this lingering hesitation with holy regard as if it embodied me with some super power. What lunacy, what madness I endured; twisted about by the contradictive nature of logos. No more shall I wear this weight upon me, cast off the coercive syntax and again like a child; I think in images. I may still write, even speak in fictitious representations but I shall live my friends, live to see these fiery reflections of light manifested into reality. Live so that I am not remembered in words but in the hearts of other men...