Decay and the rifle alone. Censored by Gods as cold winter snow passes men stuck in glop as it blows. Who knows? What the fuck does a soul call a home? Accepting ideals without gloves being shown. Refuting belief but still knowing that something transcends all of time, space, math, and the know-how. Gloating but feeling in pain for lost souls turned wayward, corrupt, or depraved by the fallout. Take it in, as it turns out, by talking in strides with the crowds. Softly speak glop when it counts. Slowly speak up, and never speak out.