Fiddle, oh ballabber-minstel!

Clandestine openings and slamming departures!

Boxed, taped up, like a bastard son in a rug of family resentment, there is no home on this plane of existence for the loveless. Bridge gaps in your teeth as though they were whores, paid and sent away, the cards have been dealt well but the bidding poor. Where is that bridge now?

I burn in the fiery passion of utter apathetic inner resonance. I would like to stand on my own somewhere until I am retrieved by my rushing father, the father of the word. Then I will be happy, or maybe not, because happiness is a humanly applied quality.

Then, at least, I might know what’s going on.