gods of war are bred not borne. they are bred from men of peae and those who diligently defend such with a fervor of a mountain trout. they that swim upstream so easily and into the bears mouth know not the significance of their labors of love. if it is called love, to travel across a planet to find someone to reproduce with, sometimes the trip across the planet is a metaphor, sometimes not. the silly sundries employed by fidgetty boy are romantic, that is a classe. a classe is a mask for the actual thing. the actual thing is base, requires no words and is cutthroat. speak through feelings not words for you will be decieved by the masters of language. language itself is a limiter and allows the vacancy of other forces to collude and confuse, but feeling is the real language, and nothing written can ever expose that. your swift qwerty fingers and eloquent speech inhibitors in your mind only skim the surface of what’s real. what is real is the impending. the things you know not how to avoid but welcome freely like cousins. despite what they say, or write, or plant, your thoughts are not mere subjects. this world is illusory, in the sense that it can all be calculated. always. hope is the defense mechanism. in your rejection of what is reality. they laugh at you, always will, and will continue to do so behind your back, but you can change it because you were made in the image of your god. the great calculator. give them chaos, and give them hell, but give them grace and give them mercy, we creatures of this terrorium speak in chance, but they work in absolutes. don’t be silly. i advise; yes, please be silly. it’s the only way to speedbump their calculations.