The worst of everything filtered through the sieve of angriest grizzled fingers stained a lifetime from their worst instincts; unabated it is, to the extent the beast is allowed to roam from most despicable pity. Atop barrels of scorn, condemnation they say "not I", "not I", but the digital missionary, the wanderer, the unbothered lost tell us time and again without variance, "that was I; that was me"......
My dinner portion is as varied as the wide world, and I would that I shared what was unattended, in preference of the hammer over the nail; given 25 minutes, I'd in return lend them the world for whatever purpose, without specification or terms of limitation--but to the energetically forklifting above their own means and beyond their own portions, perhaps it is to let them sit to be visited later by buzzards who are indiscriminate in their tastes of dead food.
I saw one, perchance, safely removed from the fray into the anonymity of the diaspora, urging on those who would run beneath the crow's nests on the plantations of their cosmic betters, urging them to death for tally in some bleary-eyed story of liberty; one only sells it without owning it, I think.
I saw one who proclaimed himself part of a group, for no other reason than his own saying so, nevermind that the others had their stripe, had their attestation, had a clearance of miles in the realm of approval, the strong arms of nature: what nature had wrought, it acted as the sieve, a keyway into his own definition of the light, though his glow in that daytime clarity would be false, to be righted once more in the strong arms of nature.
I saw one go to bed at 9 in the evening, not in fatigue, not in weariness for the condition of the world, but from the throes of apathy--yielding the night after spendthrifting the daylight towards the purchase of the night--twas against our narrator, that one can only concern himself with why, with no subsequent remonstrance of later dissipation, distortion, distraction, disaster.
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