En route to the dogs, there’s the apocalypse w/in; pushing up deeply. 
Our lot’s in a hurry. Natant decapods added vowels.  
 
No future arouses chaotic phenomena rooting for any singularity ahead until there is no threshold. Another one. Matter persists, w/o dissonance, no disruption, a new status quo: perpetual and vital amid meanderings that are ordered appearances gone dormant, nearly kaput, or snap, running off with fresh incentives for a frontier in more ubiquity. Optics unravel in dissolving attitudes behind all the good times forward.