A conspiracy theory is like the scrawl found on a wall somewhere. The inked characters are desperate to get out the truth as the owner of the hand who wrote it wants you to believe it. When the only message it sends is one of a mind in need of greater self-reflection. A mind in need of more critical ability than finding a scapegoat or a cure-all. It reads as a call for help from someone who needs to find a pattern or put an order to the chaos in order to feel as if things could be under control or solved. That there is always somebody to blame (ironically negating the randomness of existence). The laziness of its accusations abounds online but I have to believe that most people see it as I do, like nonsense scribbled on a random wall whose truth is nothing but sad.
The geometrical apparatus holds the sleepers who warp its architecture with an uplift so tremendous that it breaks into a distant shoreline. And this occurs in only a brief moment of the half-sleep allowed. The microquake of a nap ceases as soon as it begins by the pitter-patter of birds (varies from sleeper to sleeper – plovers, seagulls, sandpipers, egrets, herons, and so on) across their sandy brows. One sleeper reports a cassowary darting over her dune-laden forehead before she can fear for her life! When the sleepers abruptly awake from their slumber, it is imperative that they ignore their tectonic activity simulations or else the tasks at hand might wash away the added benefits of transitional states contributing to enhanced productivity desires.