Is now our certain time? Existance. Or are we stalled? Far from the road's end. Too distant to accomplish. This space is a tired lung. Muggin Got my stripes on, Gotta match son Cause if you're the young one, Then stand like a man, Your purpose you must demand. Just us, matching up the palms of our hands Scream out, Damn the world, Blam the man! We are no inferior residents
You observe, you perceive quickly. You tangle and twist your wit. Just a bit. But always in a sparing manner. And only for the sake of it - the quickened emotional offensive. A passionate defense.
"Fuck it. Just do it."
You're holding steadfast to your dreams. You enforce it, muttering quietly to yourself as you soak your mind in a million tiny inkblots, bent forward so you can read only the words.