When we sit down and set ourselves out to give up the ghost, so to speak, is there any real reason that we are compelled to share ourselves? Why else but to seek inspiration from others and have yours stolen? It's odd how this conundrum develops...


Reaching out with our minds towards others, in their own kind, whom have an obligation the same as your own to compose - to create, to change, and to evolve - these are the traits that I believe, most key.

Is there something more to life than the expression of a singular entity, despite it's own involvement, with the greater humanity composing existence? I would hope so.

I believe it is nothing more than the art that we censor and slash for sake of one another. We are much more sensitive to the raw images of pictures, words - but is there any definition between the influence the blurred image a breast has, and seeing that of a natural unimposed image?

Is there some signifigance to seeing the breast and not the nipple? Enough one-track metaphors for the cause, forgive me - I find it most applicable.

Do we ever decide at some point to put down our personal distaste for the lives of others and figure it's more beneficial to embrace what is, the universal positive?

Or can we tear things apart a million times over until we are ravaged minds in creaky chairs, wandering the same halls, even after death?

I can't decide on such things on my own. I worry at times no one else is burdened by the thoughts of others, those whom forsake their own values and insist it is no worry of another to take the cause of an other.

Perhaps though, this is the purest concentration of the concocted word love.