Faded Steps

Hollowed out noises that seem to transcend from the outer realms; silk vasts of in-depth personas mime your actions. The way of One is over: there are no more transgressories to be made; with every assumption, the universe sinks 1 level lower. We do not know or feel of these transactions [we only hear about it from the spectrum's whispers']. There was more of an echo before; the walls have been listening in to each of our conversations and now we must speak in code; but what of the wharfs? What of the naysayers, what of them. And what about them do we have to concern over? We live our own lives, unconcerning to theirs, why must they fret over our decisions? We only pluck the chords we see fit to pluck as we sway with the inaudible symphonies of the orchestra conducted by Mankind. Each of our plucks vibrate to the other sound waves and interact as events and coinkydinks. We do not see things as the others do, we only see what is there in our spectrums to. It is quite vague, as I see it [the concepts I have come to believe are drifting away, and slowly, I am "making things up" to satisfy my logic]. It is alright, however; I am denounced of my throne by many other radicals like me, like minded thieves who only reap to kill. But I do not wish to be heard or known, just acknowledged. Even in writing, these words that I use are fearful you may forget their true owner. 

Do not forget me.