People used to eat pigeons, be wary of your trash. People used to live love longing, demand he has some spine. A bullet hole like a pinprick we minimize our time’s tragedies. It’s not so good it’s not so great it’s perfect perfect and isn’t it tragic? The freedom power perpecularity of time as it splinters and collapses on itself. As all of history is summarized in one single day. As all of history is forgotten for the future’s sake. As I sit here as I wait for the former latter to be forgotten for advancement to take over for the youth to surpass wisdom for condensation to drip drop fall forgotten off of one glass. Time is not ticking time is waiting for history to repeat itself. Time is not ticking time is waiting for new thoughts to obscure pass successes. We have learned about the fun of the past we have surpassed it we are getting passing grades. We have learned about history we remember what we are told we can improve we can replace we obscure obscure the obscurity of the lessons that are less than what is to be obeyed. I am not keeping up I am not proposing advancement. I am not keeping the pace of the minimization of time spent as it is perfected. One life lived in a sea of alternations: a splash produced by a single drop wave-adding to present-soon-forgotten situations. The future is our future is our present past tensed. Our future is supported by the wise resenting wrinkled flesh.