The motherfuckers are having a field day. Lazy advertising and a few half-baked generations of misanthropes; now we can't be still and we hate the way things look. Shit!

Stop and think: did I end up being a type? Was I always this way? How do I backfill so the story makes sense? Pick up a guitar--you can't play, but you play. Some chords sound ornery, the way you know a crow's mad even though you're not a bird. Flat a note--medieval prigs wrote a few lines on why those ones belonged to, at the very least, a daemon. Your friend's playing the drums now and hitting things is just as effective as it's always been.

In cycles, some people are compelled to make a ruckus. They stir like creatures and slap space and quell and go back in the foxwarren. Their voices may not carry beyond the cave walls but for a second they register a feeling and someone else was free to think whatever of it.