What if I told you, for aeons in the past the human race has punctuatedly stumbled upon electricity. And for hundreds of cycles, there has been a civilization where all the communication has been reduced to the word of mouth. That is because they lost their exteriorized memories stored in the clouds.
It is a lovely day in Madison, the skies are upset though. As if they lost something? Why are they crying, why is the world grey?
Humans are sick, they say.
They have lost contact with their ancestors.
They are swamped in a vortices of their own imagination.
They refuse to understand that the skies ‘can cry’.
They have turned around their very home – and deemed it as a machine.
Oh burn, we shall, my soul!
I will help you take the evil doers. I am not saved, I understand. I don’t want to be saved. How many times, have I wanted to die. You know it don’t you? Everytime, I am high. The deepest thoughts of paranoia take over. But I have lived through them, I have survived and come out on the other side. Don’t worry. Enter, the Mystic PotHead.