Standing in the backyard tonight I hear sirens. I also hear drums, horns and is that a tuba? A marching band! What the blazes are they up to? It’s past midnight. Way too late for a parade and probably too early for a funeral.
Well, we might as well open another bottle of wine and light fire to our old dreams to keep us warm. We can smear the ash on our faces. Run gleaming through the trees. Hoot at the moon.
The old dream is dead. We can be anything, but first we must lose ourselves.
We’ve been programed by greedy robots who teach that winning the dog show is the most important thing. It’s the only thing. We’ve trained and cross bred our ideas so much they only birth mutated memory. Something about owning and war and more and more until we’re completely alone atop a pile of bones and money.