No hope endures the burden of the status quo. So say the patrons of the first world. No loss too great to stave the mass consumption. So say the masters of the first world. No idle time to mourn the loss of personage. You owe a debt unto the first world. Some say that hell depends upon the place you're born. If you're not born into the first world. Permutations of the bearers breed cancerous ilk. Dilation even in light means flaw of basic senses. Egality has no basis. Thus morality is pageantry feeding egos. Though, starved none the less. Harbinger of the unappeasable lust to court bereavement; sniff the decay from the stagnant air. Heralding sorrow with such frequency must erode one's patience and emasculate garish conceit. The mechanisms that have rendered hope as dust have put to sleep group instinct to preserve our lives. I've been awake for several hours now. Trust. My corpse will be one of the few with frozen open eyes. Famine of hope. Left to rot. Left to believe what is not. Four billion years of evolution, yet possessed by other humans. Our worth weighs against the bottom line like spitting at the sun cures cancer. Hopeless. Permutation of the bearers breeds cancerous ilk. Dilation even in light means flaw of basic senses. Egality has no basis. Thus morality is pageantry feeding egos. Though, starved none the less. Golden age of pretense catalyzed by opiate like pleasures. Leaves no pause to question if the outcome has ever been worth the measures.