In these times, in these days, towards the middle, as the game shifts so childhood lasts forever; a man wakes up alone in his poorly managed bedding, admitting he’s in the wrong but doesn’t know what that even means, let alone what’s to be done.
In these times, with the way things are going, understanding that no one is wise but many are idiotic and a few are closer to correct; a man gets into his 40s feeling it’s perhaps too late now, perhaps uncorrectable now, perhaps heading to where it must now stupidly go, whatever effort he might yet muster.
What’s the error we wear? Who’s fault is this?
The only thing that actually exists is God shining through all these shifting sands.
So why so much nonsense?
People are made of shampoo and flakes of dead sin, skin, kin, and embarrassing kilns. People are made to order by the spinning world-machines. People are made to cry by losses they had to know were always coming. People are mad weird.
What is a good decision? How do we get better?
I’m worried, mad worried.
The Boys in their hood, lost like cobra eyes, sneaking where they had to be caught by the flyswat, so what the fuck what the fuck where they even thinking?