The world flies by cosmically
Millions of handles loosely hanging dragging swinging in the soup
Each one lubricated by lessons learned
So thick and slick my man hands aren’t enough to grab onto maybe the last
One might be mine is it the one for creativity bursts out against my wall against the world
My protection from the people I want and hate them till the misanthrope kills in a jealous rage for anonymity and acceptance
What I can do what I want to be a meaningless eccentricity of this failing manufactured life.