Delicate dreamer gazing in a decidedly nonchalant visage. Who are we but thin reedy stalks against the sun? I am no artist. I am merely a tool. A special tool overly sensitive to the things about me. I cry frequently on a good day, laugh on the bad ones. I weary of the act we act. I see it in church, on the street, the playing of hair, the posturing and the constant never ending acting. What of those who refuse the act we act? In this present age it has become more so insidious: ridiculously self absorbed narcissism as the loftiest exercise in the fundamental existential challenge.

Fronts of fashion and politics, while the back of house is rife with indecent inclinations. Horrors. I just wanna walk in the cove chasing the scuttling crabs. My knowing flees me.

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