You wanna walk out into the woods and settle this shit like a couple of 19th century boxers? Drop gloves as they say in the hockey arenas? For what? To solve the riddle of time and agony? Do you think it matters? Any of it? Our pangs and our trials and our tribulations? Myths. All myths. Everything we aspire to be in the name of bettering ourselves and those around us is perpetually influenced by the propaganda machine. The man. The king of the sheep. The master of billboards and the grocery store champion. We owe ourselves to their reign. Their rain. Their oh so acidic rain. Their apocalyptic barrage of nonsense and misdirection. Their crown of hate and misogyny. We owe ourselves to their capitalism and their greed and their abundance and reluctance to share. They are our leaders. They hold our leash. They command our attention and keep us locked to their tits. They give us only enough rope to not hang ourselves and you want to bark at me about some small disruption in our wavelength?