how low we stoop to reach god

how low we stoop to reach god. the employ of the substandard to make economic guidelines results in the fracture of the supply chain. hindsight is equal to mindless conjecture plus one half parts imagination. whatever we accomplish is truly the only thing we have been able to think of. judge first before the prizes are all gone. where did all the cool hangouts go in the interests of community standards.  if theres a man who can laugh at himself then he's not taking this seriously. before i reflect on the art of self recrimination id first like to introduce our celebrity panel of experts, from Hollywood, washington DC and the ever popular home of inorganic cess pool living Hawaii. But first lets meet our contestants, losers all, but one lucky soul will get to revel in their shit in front of millions of viewers every day. So here he is direct from the talk radio oil slick over paradise, toomy fartmouth! it your day in the shade mr sunshine and look theres a parade just for you and no one is wearing any clothes. the important thing is that everyone wears blinders and earplugs at all times with what little attention they have directed exactly where they are pointed at.so with the flat screens attached to the wires from their ears they walk in a very neat pattern, much like delicious little gerbils. if we could just get them to spellout product names or form logos as they march the entire world would understand the attainment of the greatest product of evolution since refined opiates. no one can escape the spell of the dreamweaver or the narcotic of self. for who dreams the self and who casts the dreamweaver upon them. even the disgust of the self with the self is the self and accomplishes only what the dreamweaver wants, more dreams.the self loathing is thinking theres a perfect way to dream, a finely tuned set of rules and requirements that somehow override the actions we take naturally and that the reactions of others satisfy us in some illicit manner  that would never be acceptable in a court of soul baring inquiry.  what right is ours but to be the instrument of whatever powers this amazing universe and the worlds beyond that even unto the emptiness that holds all in its formless guise. from what grain of sand does descend the equivalence that one slip of the grain this way or that is the result of the sands doing. you are at the pleasure of the whims of the forces that are beyond the human, to go beyond you sit in judgment upon that which you are and decide what is needed. but this is playing cards before the battle. the outcome of which, the winning or losing of this game, is immaterial to the war. its a pastime with no result, building the sand castles before the tide rises. what ego sees ego destroys and recreates. the living is the significance, not the individual lives. we power the engine of unpredictability, the xfactor of inconceivable brilliance that exceeds the abilities of the rational conceiver. the dog that talks and plays cards, the human that flies, the pure force of being fully extant in the awareness and in that instant alive as the miracle of birth where nothing can live. i sweat in a cave in a world borne of nuclear fusion, rubbing stones together to fashion my expressions. we evolve in such limited strokes,predictable growing like viruses in a host, dieing off as the host nearly collapses then coming forth again. yet the true energy is galactic, universal, immaterial, but none look there, only closer here, where theres easier access to things to look at. it doesnt matter, but the game is bigger than all this examining our own spoor and dissecting our piles of dust and clay pot shards. be not amazed at what little you can understand, but at how much you can forget.