Freedom is the shadow of a silhouette's abstract visitant presence; it is hollow past the point of translucency; you could walk through it and never know that it was never there.

Freedom is a flag that inspires subjugation to a flag.

This a posteriori world is a prison; this body is entombed within the claustrophobic grip of the a priori Althusserean society; confined to the inclement interpretation of historical cartographers semiotic geography, pointing the pressure of fleeting normalcy upon the mind. Freedom is a ritual, a sarcophagus at the unbreathable center of the slavers pyramid of capitalism; the only sound within the darkness is God's noumenal breath.

Has anyone ever chosen to be born? I cannot escape whatever the hell I think I am while I breath; I'm to be grateful? Gratitude is the virtue of obedience that I paint my walls with, knowing that one day the walls will be painted again in whatever compliant aesthetic fancy holds my attention. Prayer is the freedom of the acquiescent. Assujettissement all the way down; freedom is a pleonasm of this.