"Am I to poof-myself-up in self importance!?"
"Perhaps execute a plan of ultimate seduction and betrayal?"
We could be nothing. Reach out to offer assistance to a child and be called a predator. Everything was in reverse. The script had been switched out long ago—if indeed there had ever been anything resembling sacred universal order.
On our own. Each and every one of us. Left out in the rain unless we sell out the person by our side. Ironic that only then would it kick in—once those misdeeds against your fellow had been committed or even pondered. Only then would the presence emerge. As we plot and machinate against those closest to us, a reward awaits each and every time.
"You, my friend, have risen up beyond the fodder," that ominous presence seems to say with searing conviction. "None of them are worthy, but you decided that you would rise above them."
No matter how cowardly the act may seem, everyone ultimately only needs to serve one set of eyes beyond this veil of illusion. The loser's game.
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