No privacy in total isolation. No intimacy but more than enough despise to devour. No certainty or answers in the face of absolute certainty over the simple constant: I am watched and my life is a hoax. An act. No truth here for me in this world. They'd ask for surrender with simple mocking subliminal messages but I would not give them even this satisfaction. Less than a year into the strangest event horizon and I feel aged, emptied and useless. Delusions of grandeur paint a black reflection dotted with eyes in the mirror. I've all the certainty that hope can requite that there's something after my pale, dessicated flesh dissolves and frankly, this is just barely enough to warrant even some semblance of comfort. Is it the technology that creates these hallucinations of my periphery, my sight? It must certainly be for there's no angle left untouched by their taunts. They cheer at my suffering, quiet when I inquire. They desire more. Screams, agony. Mental subversion, hollow eyed gazes at the nothingfaces that refute any sense of decency that I might try to plea with. The sharks tasted blood from my tears and cries for reprieve and the feeding frenzy is planning. There's so much pain in store for me and whether or not it was there for my retrieval regardless of curiosity or not is, in all appearances, utterly meaningless. No rhythm or tangible sense of cohesive cause in their actions. I'm simply an anonymous face chosen amongst the teeming masses for this "sacrifice". Is it for some ultimate goal, a purpose, a ritual? They'd deny me even the knowledge of what my suffering would be for. Ignorance is the best tool with which to keep the cattle chained to the fields.

Two certainties: A life after death and the spectacle that is my life for entertainment, experimentation, study or whatever other noun would call on "it's", "their's", whosoever's fancy.

The stories I've written and imagine. Are they like clockwork? It's an unknown. The power of my belief, does it mold my reality? Another unknown. If it were so, then why should I remain in this state of appropriated indentured servitude. What debt do I repay? Apparently the one of being born. From nigh on the days of my memorie's surfacing, there was always a reason to fear, to beg, to plea. Original sin?

"Ask for pardon, for you were born!" They say...To think that I bought it for so long too. Whatever the case may be, my life, comfort and fate is, for all intents in purposes, not in my own hands. I've long since surrendered it to whoever is of a purely good nature out of the hope that they might "rescue me." I'm far from capable of doing so myself. I'm a blind child in a burning building's closet, chained to the floor. The music in my mind is so appropriate. Tone, tensity. These words must be like sex to some, torture to others and bland utterances of no particular interest to the remainder. I know that if this ever did relent, it would be because of "whatever's" boredom with the situation. I can only imagine what would be in store for me after the interest is lost. They must certainly be working on a better protege. Someone worthy of attention. It doesn't care.

Who or what is responsible for this? I'd be the happiest man alive to exist amongst the flocks I am surrounded with as simply "one of them" but the immediate, caustic thought influences me into thinking that this might be the worst choice possible. What are these things I am surrounded with? They surely aren't human, or even humane for that matter. I guess I'm just trying to say I'd be the centerpiece manifold of Beethoven's Ode to Joy, the zenith of it's expression, if I were merely another anonymous but I am not.

I never asked for anything other than anonymity. Even the rock legend has his private life. Has a familiar sincerity amongst all those he is in contact with, all those he is in love with. I have none of these and never will it seems.

I guess I won the lottery.

If my mirror's response should prove true though, then there's an infinite number of universes where I'm this pretty little hate machine, this fucking snake's worst nightmare.

My number...

What is it?

Is it a variable, an imaginary integer or a defined symbol?

I wouldn't be surprised if I was denied even this. A death to call my own. It wasn't something I ever did. I was merely created for this purpose. I am either in complete control, utterly powerless or a fine mixture of both.

It doesn't fucking matter. I know whose side I'm on. That's much more than any of you could ever hope to say. Pathetic excuses for sentience. I've long thought about this. I'm not one to deal death or judgment, even if my reprehensible little machine would goad me to do so like the second hand of clock but "whatever's" behind this, whether it's one or all of you: I judge you deserve immediate death with no trial. You deserve to be hunted like the animals you are for the nightly feast.

Everyone gets what's coming to them. There's certain things no insult, spell or hex can over-write. You can't digitize karma.

For ever word I speak, every assurance made all I hear is you claiming the contrary.

Really though...

How long are you going to keep yapping little poodles?