Here we are, at it again. I'd like to say things are different this time, but are they? We operate on the assumption that we're these monolithic figures crusading through existance, our actions shaping the very ground on which we stand. Yet, from the very moment of our conception, we are clusters of particles with unique electron fields. Two twins or clones start off with the same "blueprint", but even they are subject to variations in composition. The checksum never matched. Change is an existential universal -- just as soon as a moment is acquired, it has already passed into memory. There is some lag between what's happening and what you see. We never really see the present as it stands. And the past, well, we re-write that according to what we want to believe. The Machines would be proud.

A faint sense of disconnect comes with insomnia. Squinting one's eyes towards glowing monitors, while fatigued limbs operate with latency. We are infinite potentials and absolutely nothing. Futility... exponentially. Normality is coplanar, a gradient vector to these twisted thoughts of ours. These worlds of words we create, a tapestry woven of tongues. We sleepwalk through life, ne, Cryptos? I've always slept on my stomach. Take a break from the world and dive into darkness. Let the animal out of its cage.

You are not your emotions, or the values that have been imparted onto you. The religion of morality aside, each person really is only out to advance their own self interest. We live in loosely structured relationships of mutual reciprocity, partiality, and exploitation, where cooperation emerges usually only because of the benefit to oneself. Often relationships of grudging adversarial respect are more truthful than friendships where you must remain in someone's regard. Although... regard can be a useful thing at times.

---

The Zionite sees my shadow dancing along the ground as I leap from bridge to ground below. It takes a second for my face to register, but when it does, the terrorist forms a not-so-subtle snarl. I reach out one boot and take a step forward; Senor Rocawear sidesteps a square on the dusty tiles. Good. His strategy is to let me lead and counter. I lock my gaze onto my target, and he transforms himself into the object of my perception. His responses to my tests show me that he sees "he and me," while I am steadfastly anchored in the realm of "I and it." He doesn't need a name. He's already lost.

The Zionite speaks, his eyes darting every which way. "Try it, man! It's your funeral." Hah. I'm afraid I won't live to see my funeral. Neither will you. These knives are Manifest Destiny. We are immortals in a digital sandbox. These are my weapons. Toe the line and pray for it to be quick.

Interlock is like a battle of the wills played via digital proxy. Once you are comfortable, you can speak to the rolls -- your gut will speak back. You can will a move to hit, I've seen it happen. Most people, even athiests, have some sort of fetish they wear for good luck, or a ritual they act out before an important event. Some play the same song before a big fight. Keep in mind that hypnotists can put themselves into trance and achieve mental anesthesia. The placebo effect strikes again. What's important is the mental clarity gained through believing your actions will have an impact. If you deep down, in your gut, feel and know it will hit, it will. Like Morpheus said... you just have to believe. The numbers be damned.

In the absence of purpose, then power shall suffice. If I cannot inspire meaning, fear will have to do. Run along, little Zionite. And that, my friends, is what Systematic Chaos entails. I toss a dart past his ear, and wait for eye contact to be broken. Ha. This won't take long. In a matter of seconds, he's immobilized and disabled, the residual effects of my knives continuing to damage his precious tomato-red Rocawear. I dart behind a lamppost to prepare for the finale, then sprint forward en disfraz and pin his kidneys to his nose. Bye-bye, birdie. Next?

---

No, there never was anything warm here but the quick explusion of his short, shallow breaths, and the steam rising off his worn trenchcoat matted with hair and sticky with blood. This is our world to make sense of. Our solitary, poor, nasty, brutish state of war. Let's get a move on. Dinner's in five.

But still, there is beauty to be found in chaos. In this battleground, every moment is precious. It's foolish to not savor the sun as it rises over Chelsea's suspension bridge, or to not capture the rainbows in the water below. High above the pedestrians mindlessly speeding by, I lay on massive cables, and nap in the misty seaside air. Despite any meaning or lack thereof, this world is ours, or noones. Does it matter? My neurotransmitters and receptors are waiting to be indulged. Who am I to deny them?