The great machine. Thoughts run through wires. Mechanizations upon mechanizations for which whose sole purpose is instrumentation. Purpose. Now there's a funny word...for purpose is only dictated by the world in which we live, for who we let ourselves be is not what we control and what fate we make is not but our own. We too take orders, and to give them out simply does not justify it. The stars are down tonight, and the pinholes have become fields of light. We burn before we think and the stars are no longer down, but within us just as we are within them. The constant hum, the gritty little rattle and the snicker down the hallway. I wonder what he's thinking at that very moment, as he ceases to control himself. Does he question his succeptibility to influence? The hum, the rattle, the snicker and here I am floating just as dust through the dust and reflecting and refracting the images I feel as I course through the light....and yet, I cant help but feel a little bit vain at the thought of being dust and being self aware.