An astonishing smudge of grays and blue hues mashed with brown geometrical shapes betraying that which lies beneath: nothing more than useless dust, innapropiately thought to be that of stars, asymmetrical and sensless jabbering of bodies in tight, cramped public means of transportation. Sleepy frozen windshields of abandoned cars rusting away in the cold and bitter urban mornings, decaying under the sharp-toothed afternoon sun of lonely Sundays watching over the theatre. We are nothing more than what we think ourselves to be, pointless in the grande scheme or lack of thereof, slow walking , manufacturing sleepy hollows for every single one of our callous offspring, pulling at their hair in ways unknown to human fingertips until now. Kisses overflowing with subtle lust and masked saliva, lips crushing skin and guitar strings and we have nowhere to turn to for affection now. What is this about? What are we supposed to see in this incoherent poor excuse for an existence lacking everything from base to substance. Ten years pass as quickly as summer break, and we break free from the dirt and spoiled water contrived of flesh and no more anorganic jibberish unrelated to that which is the common origin. Spit is everpresent, flags torn above our heads for they mean nothing. What is this about anyway? Don’t expect too much from people, it will hurt them and wound you like a silver bullet through a chocolate cake and oily tegument, like bronze arrows through nihil and seringe needles through innocent veins. Let the low tide sweep your nosebleeds and gather them inside us like honey from distant flowers. Summing all of this up I find myself not existing, unreal and halucinogenic manifestation of nothingness that shouldn’t even be named for it has none, one thousand hours of staring will do nothing to enlighten my perception of my own persona and no surjectivity exists in my vital functions. What is this about, in the end? What is this about.