I scream silently at the menotonous rocky roads of our circular economies. Constancy is fallacy when the entropy is a constant in our universe. Time is but a vector that we follow, forced to obey by the signs of our senescence.
A swirl of emotions and mixed metaphors question the utility of it all, this aesthetic of prejudicial arrangement exists without compromise, promise, or otherwise. Hope is a foul four-letter word, I prefer hopium and the addictions in the face of limited liberty.