Simple random garbage falls off the wall of eternity into a puddle of tarmac on the floor. Cabbage is flung from pot to pot until it stops spinning upon itself. Stoning people seems like mush in the darkness. There are things which come to those who believe in the everlasting wanton ecstasy which is that which we call the death of class. Sometimes I wonder on the matters which penetrate my cavity and ponder on the decisions we make. I may never know truth, but I have felt the sweet and sour feeling of the scratching of a smooth armpit, and that may just be the answer to all the questions. In the end of the inevitable lies the items which make one’s life seem trivial. Sometimes in the gloom I sense a vast protrusion emanating light in the corridors of hatred. And in the lack of space I find a certain twisted sense of luck. But then, I’d wanted better than to crawl on upon the backs of others. We may never know. Oh well.