all the synapses are charged and loaded, overcharged, silent. everything i've learned has appeared in front of me into a perfect algamation from outer space itself. i should believe in the power in my body, and harness the madness into reality. the ache is ruinous, and it is blossoming into hastily spoiling fruit. i've forgotten how this works. rusted wires and joints. sharp as a tack in magnetism, a tad dull in polarity. earlier, the fist of fate plunged down from the clouds and pinned me down; a man turned into a wriggling worm in the rain. its next options are crucial, for time is short. the options are to remain pinned, becoming one with the rocky ground, or sprouting giant wings and fangs, devouring that fist, shooting hot venom up its veins, toppling the giant above. overthrowing the titan by any means neccessary.