The humdrum of machines. A missed cycle, a bad bearing, a bent fan blade.
It makes a music like no one would believe. The electric hum of powerlines and transformers. The clanks and jeers of a crowded bar, the cheers of an arena.

The construction on your neighbors houses while you set in humble shame. Jackhammers, swinging hammers. Little handlebar bicycle rings from the children you never had.

Sometimes, you want to say **** it, and burn the world down. Then you remember, some people aren't unhappy. It's not your place to sabotage their trampoline. Sometimes you're just who you are, and no one else, and nothing else matters.

Sometimes you're you. The rest of the times you're just trying to be.

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"So much for playing it cool."
As he rolls down the stairs into the street, ****** his pants, and pukes in the gutter.
"What is a gutter? Seems like the whole world these days."

Sometimes,
when you see the wall,
you slam on the gas.

Life was easier
When my biggest problem was
Just going hungry

I'm not here to tell you anything you don't know, or show you anything you can't imagine. Not to expand your consciousness or "blow your mind."
( in the parlance of our time. )

I don't even know why I'm here, at all, at this place or on this planet, or in this existence.
( if that's what it really is. )

I'm not here to know the answer or spread the word, to think too hard, work too hard. But to follow my heart and fully embrace the passions it leads me to.
( a bundle of nerves that seem to have a mind of their own. )

When the world feels as if it's crushing in upon your chest, down upon your shoulders, turning deep within your stomach ... a ridiculous thing like a heart can give you the power to get up and push it back.
Thank you for filling mine up.

The low impact tremors of the trucks and trains and machinery of the city rumble through the day, long into the latest hour.

The reverberations of what we've done stretch back before the boom of the roaring twenties, when the steel skeletons of the new giants were born, passed the wailing of falling bombs, long into the future where masonry and glass fall slow miles to deserted streets.

This living, breathing, churning machine has a life of its own, its own fears, its own dreams, and without it, what are we?