Why is it that everytime I get the urge to write something bombastic and fiery about the inadequacy of the modern world, there is a voice that urges significant restraint? You would think that after 8 years in this business, I'd know by now that there is basically no external reason for censorship. And if I am not to express things that occur to me frequently, what good is this place? So anyway, here is something I miss: the mystery of the arts. I remember a time when we didn't know what everything was, when its full backstory was not laid bare before release, when its secrets remained so for yeas, serving as fodder for all manner of fantastical imaginations and stories. I see why it may seem jejune to the believers, but each time I am reminded of its reality nowadays, I grow a little colder, and I'm not sure why. Recurrent realization of time slipping out of hand, perhaps. I'd like to think it's because a little more magic has been lost, though.

It is unfortunate that this earlier time was also my childhood, so perhaps I am conflating the two. Ah, what did those times mean? They are wispy memories now. I can hardly believe they happened to me. During my exile I feel even disconnected from my more recent naivete. This fiend I have become, sedated by the steady access to entertainment, takes empty steps each day and ends up where he started. What are we living for?