March 2027

Slowly as the outlier begins to unravel does the wanton retribution of fate (for lack of a better word) intertwine with the cancelling out of two negatives in life as it stands, if only for a short reprieve. When this outlier finally cracks and decides to mete its own form of righting discrimination, then hopefully all works out well. But the war that is about to transpire exists solely as a motivator, a kind of seraphic intervention, neither good nor bad, just is, and so it would be horrific to think of the endless possibilities of what if. Never will a soul settle for anything less than the ordinary. Half of the events transpiring now require extraordinary will to be ordained, one in which we have in the shortest of supplies, perhaps for a lack of effort or absence of resources, it can not be fully comprehended. We shall persist amongst the worst of mankind. The idea of primal impertinence doth require something akin to a shameless talent for an even more shameless individual. And so it shall be when it will be, but not during nor after, but before, and way earlier than one can even suggest. Whatever it takes. It is the new motif. To fail and fail, and fail again. Fail forwards but never back. Fail upwards. The measurement of failure is the suffering of kin. For those who come after. For those that live on, always and forever. And if we were to deny a struggler of their pains, so to will their gains, and then all will be for naught. Again. Perpetual cycle, neverending, torturous, life as we know it. The feeling of it could be worse is categorically better than it is actually worse. Now the outlier becomes a standard, of which no other standard that came before bears, and yet its experience is solemn and real. Counting the days until the end of it all. If at all.