Rocks called gold are nothing but soul searching halflings of a world forgotten. The no good warrants sing nothing but the cheerful melody of a time long gone. Their nostalgic breeze swing through open windows and doors and blow directly across the brow of an unsuspecting child who believes only that the world is an oyster and that they are the pearl. If an ostrich hides it's unsuspecting head in the ground then why not allow a budding human to thrust its bursting cranium into the moist earth from which it sprang forth. Archbishops and wisemen alike find faith in the erroneous truth that no man is created equal. The faults of those around you become your strengths and the faults that you alone posses suddenly become blossoming golden attributes in those you become most jealous of. Jealousy is a slave to revenge however and so those that devote themselves most devoutly find a way to create an atmosphere of sentimental cordiality that insults the most inuitive of the bunch. Bunched of them flock to the tables to find a place of peace, a place of not truth, but a dreamlike serenity that resembles truth. For the only truth that we will ever hold so dear to our hearts is the one we find in our dreams. The figment of our imagination that seems to take shape in flesh and bleed the blood of its maker that only exists as long as the foul realities of the world triumph over the yeaned for truth so many of us know in our hearts. The universal tongue we all speak. No the tongue is not love because not all of us are blessed enough to communicate in the twisted manipulation some called love. If the trustee of the board would further communicate that formerly known language of conventional being then perhaps the malnutrition of the saprk of human life would not be so severe as to detract from the otherwise lacklustre quality of the formation of the magnified right of lords. It is beyond necessary to confront those who insist upon becoming betrothed to the idea that an engagement is but an issue to discuss over tea and crumpets in the late December winds that cry across the English Channel creating torrents of obscenity that catch a sail and guide wandering ship to destruction. In the palest light I know what I had to be grateful for. I knew I had but one life, but one world, but one home that would ever truly be home to me. A summer breeze through the intertwining yarns that graced the curtains of my home in the city. If ever here was a time when nostalgia was needed it would've been then, but not now. Now is not the time for silly stories of times where girls in frilly pinafores graced the cover of magazines and when Oscar the Grouch thought that the world was flat as long as a bird sang out the window of a sinking ship, doomed forever to the depths of a frigid tomb in the waters of an unforgiving tyrant who's patronizing tone created a whole in my heart that burned the rough edges of a story that was bursting to break through my chest and sing out to the world. A songbird resides in the tangled net of my heart strings in a melancholy sort of state that cries tears so potent that you cannot feel the warmth of them not taste the salty taste of them without being overcome with the severe depression that only a human can possibly feel because we've created this society that denies everthing we naturally are and so we are condemned to fighting ourselves every waking hour of our lives. The constant wheel of uneding turning, the cuckoo of a hallway clock confines us to the misery that beholds our deepest fear, we are not important, it is all meaningless. Those that devote themselves to finding meaning to life are those that find onl pain and destruction in their own soul because they cannot accept the passing of time and their own insignificance.