Structures crumbling like so much stale birthday cake; lost celebrations and altered lives. Replacement reality, built better, stronger. Replaceable existence. Regurgitated invention. Retroactive information, if we had only known. Realized recreation, the remedy was a sense of control in loss. A pale mixture of words vomiting forth from poisoned accusations. Twisted, was this ever real life or simply an anesthetic imagination? Was I ever relevant? That is, was that which is called I, our communal I. This seems to be in question. What do you stand for? I mean, what does you stand for? A timeless disconnect between the object and the symbol has been growing with the allowance of the flow of minutes, hours, days, these superfluous measurements. The relation has become confused and now we are crying. Tears fall collectively from a hollow space, hurting with no reason because the logic was lost generations ago. We’ve simple gotten used to soggy carpets and puckered fingerprints. Every time we try to trace the despair back it has no beginning and no end, it just is. And then, what is. That is, what is is? A state of perpetual being; an abyss of existence. Is this why it feels so abysmal? The impending I looming, either the one that is or the one from before or the one that comes next; wondering which one was relevant, if it was any of them. For the purpose of connection to this you that I keeps talking about. Stretching fumbling fingers into the past as if there’s still something to reach for back there. Perhaps some other symbol, a lost link to the collection. An answer to why the foundation seems to have been weak all along.