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What is there to greatness, what is this greatness we seek as the little sparkle of our light grows and advances over the years? Are we to be the Toms or Samuel Hamiltons of the world. Must I be great, the pinnacle of me that resides in my head? Must I be so wise, my gravitas nestled in my form, my voice must echo in the minds of others. I am wanting of the praise of populace. Awaiting accolades of the acolytes. Praise be above me praise be upon me praise be of me.

I am torn, Imbruglia torn, rendered between humble civility and arrogant princeliness like the round robin never dying fight of the last true Saiyans. I shatter the self for respite from maniacal hordes ego-succubusing the core of my life for some Machiavellian Faustian deal on a life half-lived, half-faltered, half-thrown away to the ravages of time, sloth and insulating fear.

Behold the Wickerman, Birdman, chu chu churian canditate. Lost in a hustle, scuffled in tussles, breakbeat break neck speed ramping up the mental. I’m raving I’m raving. Mad mad lunacy eyein me. Can’t get enough of thinking about me, she, parallels and variables. My quantum spanner on the fritz, flux capacitor shoddily dying in the afterglow of the aftermath of Mathers of fact. Ken Kaniff smoking spliffs with sensitive kids on youth trip. Where am I in it? I said I’d rip it and spit I said it so forget it; my words lost on the lofi wifi confused sigh of the people of the lands, imaginary fans. Either the great or the meek I’m on this rock and rule course and I’ve cast aside destiny, fate, hope, vigorous denial. If I  am to be my own wise buddha I certainly must accept what is hard to accept and make of myself a greatness worth having.

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