Literally nothing is granted, nowhere, no how.  
 
There’s a centerpiece to explain how flowers are cut as progressions. 
 
Iconoclasts count them in a series as foreground to falling cornices. 
 
They did (in plurals). 
 
Now months later, there’s good news 
Since you wait for a change of fortune, not for empowering others. 
Your freedom belongs hiding in plain sight, on the ground.
 
Fuller discourse can scar others, you see, yet you see nothing but simple, bare facts are slaughtered by pressing the remote.
 
Free, in subjective sensation.