Open revelations about this century rest beneath the eyes of a hawk. However, with this impassioned rage for blood the hawk steers clear of the human path.  Bombs drop like leaves from tress upon the preschool playground.  Can we seriously wonder why this time has resounded to such decibels?

There was one moment in my life when I realized I could no longer be a child.  But in that moment I decided I would be.  For the rest of my life, I would never grow up.  It seems only now the time has been pushing me to mature. I feel like I have gone far enough until it throws another dish into the sink.

Water dripplets cascade down my neck.  I am a dishwasher for the human appetite.

It doesn’t really make to much sense now, that I should be forced to grow up.  It seems that the job of an artist is to remain young and bring some new perspective to an indolent group.  Perhaps, I like to sound more important.

Maybe I am just a youth corrupted by a cooperate idealist mind; no matter how Marxist I appear to be.  While the economy is falling, I only wonder how far will it fall.  Will we really find another depression?  It seems that this casual capitalist business cycle is not enough.

I felt the burns on the back of my hand expanding.  As if a lake of rubbish, it follows me down toward the rabbit hole.  I am never more of an anthropoid than I am now and will never find the correct answer to the problem at hand.  It comes from the way we write like a pink table.  I never exactly knew what to say to the white board in front of me.
Word vomit encapsulating the innocence of a forgotten mind set.  Pushed in front of a bus.  Deterred to go.  How can you force the like of a red light me to become your only truth.