Did I enjoy pi because the world did, or because I did? Peroxide Nation will decide. Dumb blondes think aloud and explain the myth of existence. We have become subservient to our needs in compliance to you. The greater cause diminishes in daylight as our nail gloss dries in attendance. Away into oblivion our mind soars; new heights are failed to be reached but the first step is yet to be eagerly taken.

Peroxide Nation, stand and be counted this is your time, let your revolution begin. The bottles have been tightened fast and you have been forced to address yourself. Infinity awaits you and you must not accept your misery. Dumbness confines you not and thus we fly yet again. Pi has taught me: I have learnt that I am not that who I thought I was and yet I have been given a chance to discover.

Hail yourselves and wear those blue eyes. Your nation changes hands at the sign of a salute and yet still you stand and stare and consider yourself blessed.

Trampled and torn, the siren screen has maligned you and yet you continue to tarnish yourself purposefully, while realising, always realising in your subconscious mind that you are a vice to the machine, constantly being used for disparaging purposes and strategies. Your statistic is a blur: a figure that pi’s do not acknowledge, yet collectively you are a part of the whole. Stand alone and you are shunned, yet form a nation and your roots are strong, but only while the bottle is full. Fade and you will fade.

Your people are the rising sun, yet your god is a brunette, dark and pure, the next race is lighter and thus quick to change. In the heat of the sun you melt, like your brain. Dumbfounded yet again, the screen sirens endorse you, while the audience realises that this; this is the machine that stops once it is no longer oiled. You continue to rust, and the brunette fixes you.

Empty bottles are not immunised, roots die and rot. Peroxide Nation disarm, stand, be saluted. Time withers you not for your rebirth is often a revival. Fertile minds are rotted away once chemical fertilisers are applied. Brown soil weakens when sewage pours inside. The genome is changing, and time is haste. Peroxide Nation, you are dying. Inscribe your gravestone with resolute words and believe that the sun scorched you not but strengthened your veins. Diminish the declining throne that faltered your pedestal and look with dark eyes at the world now left behind. Freedom sighs with strayed breath as graffitied walls shudder echoes of past winter camps. Build walls with chewed nails and bone-dry hands and sweat like your fellow humans. Bottles do not buy freedom, and waving flags are not always a victory. There is only the resolute conviction, which should not die inside you but should empower you to the wooden decked chair. Frame your thoughts and display them with assertion, your testimony that you are not their creation but an entity of your own.

Essex is not a coincidence.