The greatest writers epics nor an edifice of stone can impress greatness upon me, no sense of humanity

Time, the great equalizer, bête noir of my desire with nothing to give but the present, its present for me

For what do I owe the pleasure of viewing the world through raw filters, no coated glass

Far from this head imploding there lies another human, soft, wet, and warm ...thanks Keats, this time ill pass

I pray to a dead god this is a dream