Nothing is so ludicrous as a grown man fluffing his lines, lousing his q&a's, attracting the mirth of a smart ass.

Me, I, get the gist of loving kindness, compassion, lack of ruthlessness. Where did the punks learn about dogged domination?

It makes me want to die to the tune of "Vincent."
I cannot tolerate the perpetual backbiting, hatred and hardness in every corner of Earth. All the unheard sobs and screams of unloved children by their millions.

Adults who hide in the abhorrent misnomer, cool and sure. Yeh, sure I can. Stepped up to the mark only becoming completely certain that word is being used to direct murder and abuse at millions deemed inadequate.

I see, feel and hear the crimes perpetrated in the name of reason and the lies told to children. No-one need to keep progressing, developing and competing year after year. The children pick up the baton so olympically, primed by didactic abusers. Because I know this is true and wrong, I am dodging the 'draft'.

Am I the oldest revolutionary? No. But where are the rest?

Z.

I know the difficulties of aiming over other's heads or being tediously obvious. Two or three paradoxes linking the wholly inadequate spatial and temporal explanation of my/our id/s. That moment in time shattered by the emergence of LSD consciousness and analysis by Freud et al., consists of the capped thrustings of the little employed eternal spring where language seeps through the crystal brook into the eternal mind.

Id is associated with madness, and mercurial wordsmithing. Id is playing with friends and strangers. It is on it and in essence, narcissus. Where, here, is the linkage with death? Here I am, just 10 minutes from dying, it makes a mockery lottery of having lived those 10 minutes, the last day or year. Does death do about me, sensationally, of turning the carcass of my whole existence inside out. In an act of barbarity the story ends, it was purely my private viewing to illustrate a few decades where I dabbled a while, tarried on the way, fucking wild!

Z.