User:Maxamillion j. Crawford

This music, within the context of the scene, reflects a semblance of existential abandonment; a consequential ego death, observant desensitization and illuminative ambivalence. A routine designed to cleanse, purify, and construct one's quotidian mask to display to others of little appreciation. Here, to the sole measure of it's own existence, an unapproachable form passes upon this apartment floor bathed in depersonalizing﻿ whiteness, through a medium of alabaster transience. There is an idea of a waldofan; some kind of abstraction. But there is no real me: only an entity, something illusory. And though I can hide my cold gaze, and you can shake my hand and feel flesh gripping yours and maybe you can even sense our lifestyles are probably comparable... I simply am not there.