I've stepped on a landmine. Pieces of myself are flying everywhere, limbs torn and scattered. I'm frantically trying to pick them up, and put myself back together. My mind is blown, back at square one, and I wish I knew where to go next. I've been advised to take a different route, but I just feel like a lost Alice following a cheshire cat. I should be looking forward to so many things, but I when I take two steps forward, I somehow end up four steps back. My craft has become this mythological animal trapped in a box with a few holes to breathe and no exit. Will it grow so big and strong it tears it's way through? Or become weak and decrepit and die alone with no witnesses?
Only the masses can decide. The public owns me.