Somewhere in the heart of the Machine. Somewhere between the teeth of the autonomous gears that rotate effortlessly, with an effervescence known only to the creator of the Machine. Somewhere floating within the chasms of society's greatest fears, we stand tall.

The air is rare as we glide through the fog of our cloudy vision. Spiked with doubt, our sights are not as clear as they once used to be. Whatever happened to our innocence? What became of our sinless lives? Did we lose our way when the road split, or did we miss that left turn in Albuquerque?

The rain intensifies and your cable signal is weakened. The wind picks up and the trees dance with a fervor unrivaled, a ferociousness unsurpassed. Bats soar through the night, flapping their wings in unison. The moon pulls at the ocean, the waves push the vessel ahead. Nothing is constant.

The internal pain becomes external. The external beauty isn't mirrored internally. You lay motionless in the tub, your fingertips mimic prunes, enhancing your grip as evolution shows itself once again. The Machine is resentful, fearful, and nervous.

You choose not to wish upon a star, for you wish to become a star. Fame & fortune, glitz & glamour. Limos and legs for days, caviar and cabriolet cars for nights.

The ladder you climb doesn't get you any higher. The rungs aren't stepping stones to a life more complete. But every step you take keeps the gears turning, lubricated by your sweat & tears, as you are left no choice but to fight your fears.

You were always on your own.

You choose to be your own worst enemy so that you may become friends with those who despise you. You focus on 2 negatives making a positive, but while you're celebrating, you forget about the third negative. This fluctuating atmosphere is caustic. This irritating biosphere is toxic, not unlike the fumes from the Machine.

We have become hostages to the approvals of others. We have become prisoners of our own decline. What's left of our effort is relegated to ridicule and satire. Is it ever gonna be good enough? Seems like that benchmark is defined by those who put in the least amount of work, but possess the most amount of clout. It may last, it may not, but the past won't be forgotten, the future won't be forsaken.

If only we could pinch & spread our perspectives. If only we could drag sadness away from our hearts and paste happiness. But the Machine won't allow it, won't consider it. A reset does not bring back your loved ones. But the tenacity of a rose rising through the concrete breeds confidence.

There are seeds everywhere. There is hope everywhere. Give it time, give it space. Give it all, sacrifice once more, and with eyes wide open, define and refine yourself, somewhere in the heart of the Machine.