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what is there that is about anyone? we are only a spec of dust from a star that has no defined identification let alone reason not to mention that there is nothing about me that isn't about you-or if not you someone you know or possibly somebody who knows you but in the end we are everyone and they are all you-so in the end telling you about me is only me telling you about yourself-to be perfectly honest you have probably been me at one point in your travels through this so called life that is only a perception of the moment through this plausible tangible mass called a brain which is really just a device to record your evolution through life so that you have a random access memory in order to attain order to a random mish mash of life and memories which is wiped clean when you ascend or decend or transfer into another object depending on which way the univers rotates whether it is an upward or downward spiral whether we expand or collapse it's all a question of perception which is only a trickery of flickering lights across the movie screen of are mind and is acted out in flesh and bone or enregy and it's flow or possibly we could all just be an accident, which if you talk to your parents you will porably find out that you were just the reaction of the lack of motivation to strap on a condom which in turn you were a failed blowjob that got in the wrong fucking place which spurned your life as an accident or even still yet could this possibly not even be real and just a misbegotten dream? could it all just be a bulb burning out in the back of some old mans brain within the few last moments that is his dying breath which to him is only seconds but to us the figments of his mind seems like an eternity? could we just be a television screen and acting out our lives sheerly for the entertainment of others that we shall never even know exist, could we possibly just be black little squiggles in text in a library that no one cares about down in the basement on the back shelf of the last case where the forgotten stories of a million different little sketches is left to sit in writhe and wither only to find that they are the universes of the universe that is just as fictional as the waking dream you will forget when you die....whatever it is...i am you-you are me-she is him-his is her-they are us and we are them-the group is not made of individual-it's not a group at alll-we are just one collected concsiousness and once we all realize this-we will be the so called god everyone so longs to believe in but is only just us-we are god-and god doesn't exist.

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