when i think to myself, what will there be tomorrow? what, when, and how shall the future beset me in the pitch black cell of uncovered certainty? i am reminded of times when i used to cast wishes on stars for the will to facilitate my own breathing to slow and heart to seize up in a fit of defiance--a sure way to escape, but then i am always comforted in by thought that as long as the invention of distillation is kept remembered and i have clouded air left in my lungs, i could care much, much less for this pithy, prat, horribly wonderful thing called life. somehow the potentiality of a new dawn is enough to quiet those demons, to put to rest the sad sick songs that play and replay in my mind--for me and me alone they comfort, so loyal, so fake. i see the routine revolutions of a rippled life, spiders and lemings, spiders and lemings verbiage spun out in silk and cotton lettering, words wasted on the iridescent, the lackluster clowns pitted in their corporate personality of contrived congeniality born from feverish bid at homogeneity. so i laugh and say, what a joke, what a gift. so let them be the same, let them be different too. life would be tastless if there were not lemings--so too would death.