It's the birds. It may be the flying beyond. You always said you had a problem with my way of thinking. I can't remember. It always felt so natural. Just denying your point of view. I can only deny what I know. Machines, they might just end up fucking us. We are not proud of our misgivings. I never said that I was proud. There is a story a man once told me, about a jealous boy and his terrible leanings. Tons of sickness, this town is tired of fighting and dying and living like the rest of the world has already passed it by. Legend has it, the black vests had a secret, they spoke of violent gestures, yet, you speak of none, I will confess. It isn't fair to the rest of them, sticking to one solid number, tired of the only thing that could remind him of his only failure.
Tragedy abounds and I still can't leave my couch. This heat has burned the calloused souls and soles and sold me up the river. Never, in my many years have I witnessed such blatant disregard.
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