Is it so much that we aspire to resemble those heightened men who share the glared-tunnel vision of blaring gluttony for common purpose? To divulge our domestic knowledge and its whereabouts on some up-and-coming projection of an outer planet excursion, that one that we so desire? If we reach it on our own mortal soil, our tears will grant us the reason we damned all this time, that we so convinced ourselves didn't previously exist. Yet we still crave the eastern front. I only pray, not for the wrong reasons. Given our allotted space for consumption, one would think we've already acquired the necessary restraints of temptations--not the case. We're reliving the struggle of carrying dead weight cemented to the ground. Somebodys name's been buried around.