I watch the few become the many. Those universally unique few that find little joy in the trivial melodramas of the majority. The majority who cling desperately to their blankets of conformity for protection from the coldness of their loneliness and insecurity. To save them from having to truly find out who they are when the lights go out. The white lights like stars shimmering in the night sky, blinking feverishly in the void lest they risk being forgotten, or unnoticed, or becoming non-existent. Each shimmer, the rhythmic pulsing of a great unknown source of power, whose brilliance might not be known for generations: through the centuries of mediocrity that saturate the void, constantly expanding the darkness. When the capacity of the average mind is finally capable of attaining a full understanding of the magnitude of the light, they will simultaneously discover that it's source has been distinguished. Like the snuffing of a candle, the oppressive expanse of the universe tightens it's strangling grasp, suffocating the individuality from those who dared to shine in opposition.