Something feels wrong and I cant put my finger on it. Everything seems to be in order. I'm sitting at my Desk with track44 open. I'm among friends and fellow shitposters. Although there are some frieghtful figures, their virulence is equipoised by the comparable abundance of admiration. While I can't quite ascertain the root of my unease, it's a familiar feeling of estrangement. Perhaps with the advent of my own paranoia from anonymously posting on the online World Wide Web, Track44 now feels like a transitory home of sadness and grief. It's time to male track44 great again.