Slipping through rhyme and reason to feasibly change the seasons, we eat the morals of our peoples chieftains and horde the gored crown of misbegotten dreams, choking down muffled screams of rotten abhorrence at the center of our beings essence. Our minds are not our own, but we condone the ill because the foreign mind is a relentless drill that plants it's seeds deep and in supplying hindsight keeps us dull and meek. The food is the weak and the strong do eat to complete the endless cycle and compete for success in survival to the hindrance of oblivious brilliance and the benefit of passive resilience.