We live in a vortex of disillusionment in our puppet facade existence. I wonder, what they mean when they say "this too, shall pass",through their metallic tongues. In some places, grass in never in green in either side of the fence. it's dull and barren. echoing the cries of a barren woman. A winter chill, that seats itself in its biting robe until the end of season. in our land, it means nothing to be Apollonian. In our land, we worship the satan. We slay goats and develop our muscles. We bad-mouth and perfect our articulation. We fear our tears and in turn sob when called losers. We live everyday in the memory of life we once had.