we all think that we're special. There's always that one thing about ourselves that we think is "different" from everybody else; qualities or characteristics that set us apart from people. We all think somebody gives a damn about our intellectual hollywood ending. We speak of romanticsism as if it were reality, and drama as if it were another dimension. bright lights and projectors give the illusion of a society that cares about each other, but the only thing it cares about is itself. human nature and survival instinct. We all think that our life can be changed with the crack of a book and the light of a cigarette, the smoke from incense or a collection of treasures; we are defined by what we think of ourselves-why not our surroundings? Even this rant doesn't say anything. Simply stating the fact that it is explaining the thought behind all the billions of words typed on this thing is false justification. C'est la vie, would it change anything? Nothing is unique; it's ruined by the cramped space that our egos allow the rest of the world. only in our most private places are we ourselves. everywhere else we are but perceptions and impressions. I wish we could get off our high horse, it doesn't matter.