The inaugural interpretation of images from the intensified impressions of my minds eye is translated not by audio or even visual, as to hear or see. Rather, an infectious invasion of feelings unequivocal to any tainted physical interpretation that has been skewed by the psychological warfare campaigned against me to mold my conditioned response.
For one to march to the beat of their own drum, one must first be able to distinguish that the beat they have heard from inception is not that of their own. Second to find that gifted instrument, given in grace, at conception from which their beat can be created. Third, to play that instrument despite the drum major of societal realities. And fourth, broadcast; broadcast, broadcast, broadcast.

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