Praxis is the touchstone of our thought. minds inform our movement making music with our actions. we are all musicians; dancing to the beat of a thousand different drums combined in tribal counterpoint until the chaos is so loud, it can no longer be heard, only felt. and the words are not spoken but they are yelled.nnall of your words have fallen to the groundnyou have sold yourself to vanitynI see your masks, falsehood seeps from younbut I dont believe a single tale from younyou scream of destruction and of anarchynyou writhe in the pain of a love once lostnnbut I dont buy a word, not one wordnyou sell what's true of yourselfn(for) vain silvernevery last drop of your blood runs coldn(you) stale cadavernwhen did your heart last beatn(you) whitewashed corpsenyour pulse has faded, your face so palen(you) stale cadavernnif this is oppression, your heart should be beatingnif you are a warrior, your foe should be bleedingnif this really hurts you, I should find you weepingnI've only just met you, yet I find thatnyour comatose conviction means nothing to menchoke on your glorynI wont let you suffocate what now livesnart is the depth of our essencenit cannot be void of truthnthe truth of your expression has witherednyour wick has become coldnyou cannot buy what's realnyou cannot buy the truth