not with words i coat the asphalt in half-witted shirts

I drip the life-blood that makes us all real.
And so do you.
A drip, a trickle, a slide, a flow
The blood that instinctively flits from sinew to stone
feeding our weakness our strength all the same

When I think of something that is life I see a warm loaf of crusty european bread. The soft and pockety interior tinged with a slight sourness. Cream colored and crusted in the flour-powdered brown crust. The crust is most absolutely necessary. I want to tell you all not to raise your generations, the world, a child, yourself on white, malleable carbohydrate fair. Only select the best and bring tangible beauty to your table. Something you would gaze through a shop window for.
But then I remind myself, what is your intent, your purpose. Is malleable fulfilling to you?
I could call your music bad. But what right have I? Maybe it is bad in one sense, but then, is that the sense your priorities are in? I should merely say, my list is not prioritized for this song.
Good people, maybe even great, or even better, maybe just a human beings like ourselves seek after wonderbread. Can we let them be or will I make myself smaller climing onto a ladder to look down on them. Must I stick my loaf on a cardboard pedestal?
No. I will be satisfied.

As I will be satisfied to end there since my night of homework is only just beginning.

Hoo rah.