If there's one thing I know, it's the way the thick musty summer breeze can take your confident smile, and turn it into the tiniest shrivel of pathetic dust that lurks in the middle of the Sahara desert. The beating sun, stealing away all of our vulnerable life, sucking up the pure substance that we believed we once lived off of. Our tears that we once shed for our loved ones were taken and strewn upon the land, making the oasis that our children's children swim in to this very day.
Shout (shout?) from hilltops, and make us realize that our lives are much more than a sickly exhibit for the ravenous puppeteers that put on their show for the kings, and wear us out until we can no longer help him please his guests. We are learning how to grow out of these outfits, and get rid of the strings that attach us to our mourning, hardly bearing enough skin to cover our bitter and abandoned wounds. And the time will ultimately come, where we will miss our predetermined lives, controlled by apprehension and strings of our mystic puppeteers. Crawling back to them is the last thing we should take part in. But like all the windborne cracks in the winding sidewalks of a physiologist palms would say, it's a never ending cycle, a labyrinth of pain... its... life. You can not win. You can not lose. The only thing you can do is take the thrusts of pain right to the stomach, and then die.