Cossathington Smithe had been skimming the creme colored page for hours. He looked between and inside the lines, struggling desperately to make sense of the documents that had just been delivered. It wasn’t the lighting in his cramped basement office, or the extra small font, that made it so difficult for him to decipher the communique; it’s importance was simply lost on him.

After two years shuffling paperwork for Derision Corps, a planet-wide migratory coordination firm, he had never received such a cryptic memo. On the page, front or back, there were only .. lines which read.

“We are not now, nor have we ever been.
We can not now, nor could we ever.
We have lost, and failed our every goal.
And now, we are leaving.”

Who, he wondered, was this “we”?

(Authors Note)
I’ll continue this eventually…

Woke up this morning…lungs burning, eyes burning, mind burning…Seems fairly convincing to perceive this all as my minds special fun illusion time.  I’ve been experimenting with dedication, and am now fairly convinced that while I’m fairly stuck to it/in it, I’m not sure that I like it.

Fairly often, opening face windows
Smelling fog, smoke, and sweat
Grabbing at fraying garments
Clutching at a worn out premise
Trying desperately to grasp the grey
Trying in vain, drawing out long gone
Conclusions and metaphors, pondering worth…
Extrapolating upon the infinite
Holding on to the finite so tightly…

Please, someone explain this all in english, in a language I can metabolize…Please…let this be held true and golden in the sun.

Hello, and welcome to the world of Rusty Fender. Prepare for zazz.