Why do they look to poets to say what it means? I have no idea what anything is, except nostalgic, hidden feelings which occasionally use love to say with bad poetry what my life was. Not only that, the lyric in poetry is gone. Prose complexity goes on and on. I can't help but wonder why I, who strive constantly for simplicity, live in a 19th century village collapsing into chaos with daily holes in infinite streets. I really think life is this: a land of punishment. Consequences conquer in a land of stupid temptations and sweets. Punishment. Of the most sly and unique kind. Long ago, kind mom and Christianity made sense. Time to lay low in a polite dream. I'm completely out of my mind.
