A slave to chivalry, watching time slip through wormholes of tedium, joy is copy and pasted for your benefit. It be unbeknownst to the guilty and painfully obvious to the innocent, yet proceeds unadulterated through generations of flippancy. A smile, a tip of the cap, a bow, all instruments of the lost art, all art lost within the confounds of desensitization.
Those first to jump through the smog of ignorance are first to wage war against the waves of deadened synapses not yet pulsating to the beat of reality. But those who jump are free to fall. Free to fall off that high horse, that imaginary throne of elitism. Those who jump are free to take the red pill, and fall back to reality.
For within reality we Martyrs are waiting. Waiting for more to join the cause. Cause if more don't, the widespread suicide of courtesy and consideration will continue to slam against the seemingly impenetrable armor of daft discourtesy.
