"What do you mean you've never seen Blade Runner? My GOD! I didn't think there was a single person on the planet that hasn't seen that. They showed it to us in elementary school as an example of a prophetic, foretelling, social commentary."
"Well, I never was a fan of fiction or science, even though somehow I've still managed to live my fair share of both."
" Do androids dream of electric sheep? What are your dreams?"
"Yeah, that's the title of the book the movie is based on, but like, I'm honestly curious about the second part. It's a better ice-breaker than your deprived childhood".
"You wanna' know what I dream? I dream of a world soaked in gasoline, and a lone, shadowy, figure masked by deceit and decay, filling the air with a rotten sulfuric smell as he festers in his own filth. I can't see this guy clearly, but I know him. I know him in my head and my heart and he just stands there, idle, in a place where he can see the silhouetted skyline of the entire wretched city. Trapped between his forefinger and thumb is a match donning a dancing flame for a hat, performing a flamenco routine for two wild eyes. Eyes that indicate a sureness of what to do, but make no use of intentions. They seem to sort of flip between question and answer with each dimming and brightening of the match's beacon. The question appears to already have been answered, but has yet to be acted upon. He's tinkering with the notion. Is this due to hesitation in the man's mind, or is he simply toying with the already squirming city? The final act is inevitable, yet the ulterior option, to extinguish the trigger, still stands...". He pauses.
His new partner's face has lost most of its color and his mouth is propped open with a jack made of sheer horror and curiosity.
"Well JESUS man! Aren't you gonna tell me the rest of it?"
"The rest of it is: I wake up".
He languidly looks around, takes a pull from the bottle, and proceeds to pull his mask over his face. His partner isn't sure, but he thought he'd caught a smile crack before his mouth was covered,
"...and not like a haha I'm yankin' your chain kinda grin. This fucker meant it", his partner would recall later to some buddies in a bar.
"I wake up and wonder whether I'm the man, or the match".
He slams the magazine into his weapon and rips the slide back to load up the first round of ammunition. He exits the vehicle, and heads towards the disheveled building that has more or less sunk into its foundation. His new partner shakes his head, wipes his face with his paws of hands, pulls on his mask, and flicks the ass end of his cigarette whose embers have already begun to eat away at the cotton filter out towards the woods. He catches the light from the buckshot of the cherry out of the corner of his eye and imagines that match spinning towards the city.
"What the fuck have I gotten into..."
The age, when they are supposed to play with toys
Picking up the broken & trashes for others, these Garbage boys
In the piles of disposed plastic chocked their story sentimental
The boys, dusty body so frail & gentle
Wrapped in clothes, tattered torn, dull & discolored like them
Surviving against the rules of Darwin
Too starved & malnutritioned & no one cares
Only the open sky & thrown food, they share
In the chaos of every city they have to find a place to sleep
They collect the things, what people call waste & cheap
No parents, no future, just the harsh life on the road side
Living in their small world unaware with pride
Shiny cars & luxury clothes, sparks their eyes
Telling that they have dreams,
But Their memories full of hate, insult & razed
Which are permanent & can't be erased
Unexpected rains, deadly cold & sweaty summers
Not every one of them end up like a Kite Runner
When people sleep comfortably in their sweet home
They stand there with the fainted & blurred shadow alone
Why must my head be filled with worry and such,
the things that make you say, "this is all too much".
It is June now, you know, the month after May,
"So relax" she said, "experience the bonnaroovian way."
But it's not that simple for a man like myself,
to take all my troubles to be put on a shelf.
To be sporadic and fun at the drop of the hat,
but the bonnaroovians say, "What’s wrong with that?"
That is who I am, and I know it’s confusing,
to go from angry and tired, to up most amusing
So bi-polar disorder is might what you think
But, “it’s not, I've checked”, said my internal shrink.
Cause these wild emotions were based off of love,
and sometimes from always being as high as a dove.
They weren’t a good mix, at least for some people
So I fell really hard, like a runner in steeple.
I regret so much, but wouldn't change it for the earth
Cause now I'll have a chance to have an endearing rebirth.
So this now gives us a chance to live in a way,
a way that roots from what the Bonnaroovians say.