Triangulations without apparent action.  Rejections without gods. 

You drive down the road at night and hover over the rooftops under void moons and glazed stars, and you wait, but you don't know what for. 

So you start a cult under the sun with a plan of genocide. and your facility is a chamber pot full of your god's shit, and you all reek of it.  It's a beautiful smell.  Well, maybe not beautiful. but it's not a bad smell.  Okay, it's not a good smell either. 

Who is this god, anyway?  And what does he want from you? 

You don't have anything except confetti, because everything you see you tear up, and it's all confetti, and it's all faded, and it's all either soggy or burning.  You can't remember what you wrote on it before, or who you took pictures of, or whether or not they ever existed or if you're alive, or ever really were. 

But everything is beautiful, and you still love everyone.  And your leaders call it Utopia. 

(And this is poetry?) 

Welcome home.