It was an aloof if not entirely fitting statement in regards to this most recent excursion undertaken to the depths of the Intern Bump Copy. "The plight is not only upon us but always forthcoming." This was what the consulting shaman expressed on the wall of an insane asylum, writing in a ground paste he'd construed from the other shamans bested in combat. The express purposes of consulting the mad shaman, if not an objective goal, was to ascertain and root out the tactical heart of what Intern Bump Copy should be. Should it be exquisite? Should it be reprobate? None of these aforementioned descriptives would prove a conclusive diagnostic to garner the intended solution that is/was/and forever shall be the heart of Intern Bump Copy. What it should be, simply put, and according to the mad shaman- is perfect. But defining perfection in a tangible form, fully realized on earth, existing of matter is no simple task. Plato would have defined perfect Intern Bump Copy existing only in the Ideal State, unable to be fully realized via a straight line through human construct. But -- "the plight upon us and always forthcoming." What the shaman in his madness was most likely getting at with these cryptic clues in to the occasion of being is the struggle of Intern Bump Copy is ongoing, forever seeking perfection but unable to ever truly obtain perfection since perfection, like the Flying Tyrannosaurs Horse, doesn't tangibly exist. The obvious follow-up question once the mind can come to terms with the burden of perpetual fallibility forever cursed upon it as it strives vainly towards perfection anyway, is -why? Why progress if progress is an unending exploration to a goal never to be realized? This deconstruction of purpose soon leaves the process adrift and the Intern Bump Copy breaks down, seeking redemptive value by latching to flighty ideas of fancy like a lamprey sucking on a shark, swimming deeper in to a dark eternal ocean...an adult swim, if you will. Sure, there's the temptation to adhere to the patterns of the forerunners but there are no true conclusions in said behavior, only a subjective escapism, like art. Existence is neither created nor perished by the Intern Bump Copy, but when reality crumbles apart, even the purposes of life and death become evasive in terms of universal meaning if they ever truly had meaning in the first place. The lamprey falls away, unable to suck anymore and the Intern Bump Copy for all its treasures and amplitudes discovers it exists like the song of a lark, which sells very few records, if money is one's purpose, in comparison to the celebrated pop artists of modern society, begging the question: does the lark sing for gain or does it sing because it is tapped in to a greater truth than the self-proposed enlightened and civilized sectors can never hope to connect with? Neither. The lark is compelled by a universal script to follow its biological programming, an ignorant bird incapable of self-examination but consider that lark which breaks boundaries, shouting inexplicably an explicit obscenity at an feline interloper shooting a reckless glance? That would be an unexpected state hereto not experienced. Perhaps this is the heart of Intern bump copy? The thing that could not be predicted, operating outside the boundaries of instituted convention? To search for its meaning proves foolish because the factors required for analysis are not available in any sensory capacity as the variables of Intern Bump Copy exist like fireworks creating the universe, here and gone again, pre-dating thought, inspiring it just the same. The conclusion reached is that Intern Bump Copy does not exist as the song of the lark. It is the forbidden eff-word shouted through a beak without teeth, a thing that should not exist but does despite the science, truly miraculous while meaningless and glorious in said meaningless because only through meaninglessness can it be free to find meaning. Nihilism thus destroys itself by its own doctrines, for if the meaninglessness is meaningless, purpose exists by sheer contrast, a necessary reaction. This is the heart of Intern Bump Copy, without pretension, previously impossible to calculate and only left to imagine. Some guy who said he was a shaman wrote that in the blood of his enemies on the wall of an insane asylum. There were no cross-references available.
