Who knew our spirits would be so easily broke? Who knew our past loves would come crawling up our legs to meet us for dinner? who knew the joys of rhythm and melody would stand and stare us down for hours and never lead with the first move. Who knew the catacombs of my fearing mind would desecrate the innards of my only wantings. Who knows why the big ones reel in after dusk. Why did things turn out in the season of so much anger? How can one overcome any proportion of ill intention to an honest living. Where are the street-grit-fighting-fearless godsends of our time. Where are the nights of comfort among the towering plagiarisms of sonic inequities. Why am I stone in my own mirror? And how often shall I have to shave off the transgressive anachronisms of the jesting majority-unjust. Will I ever see a cannon with a name other than "jesus the king" around the barracks of quen anne burrows? I am cold and engrossed with my feelings. I am the youth's catch-all phrase for re-new-all and desperate tendencies. I am the unconscious objection to that censure of my own old crowning. The way i was held like an infant again. I mustered and mangled and derived that only in my free gliding could i roll down the soft hills of my fervent dreams. I can smell and sense the rays of jubilation i reach when drifting in tangent with the innocuous verbiage of my unbridled soul. Bringing the bleak toned honesty I once and always devote my sincerity towards. and alas my mind begins burrowed in the melting tin of bleeding doves. Not to be confused with other obscurities We Speak Wandering. Pleasant by night,