We have entered the age in which we bless our children with the horrible truths of our childhood. We are of our parents' mechanized shadow, as we rust against an ally wall, with trash brushing our ankles. Instances where their cigarette ashes have permenantly stained our legs haunt us because it burns us...everyday. The spit of an ugly man's mouth make our skin boil None of us bear in mind the words of the deaf man, because his words are from his heart and not from the world that swallows him hole. [This is the Shallow Age] I am no longer here to destroy God, but to defend the notGod. I find that the more man punishes himself living for God, the more he becomes crippled and decrepit. Man (as I am here to stomp out the sinners, and cherish the celebraters) should believe in himself, and then they will be believing in God. God is not real, yet we shall always create god in our own words. The click of our heels. The click of a button. The click of a gun, etc. [GOD is dead.] TIME IS FADING THE FABRIC IS RIPPING, RIPPING, RIPPING... You are reading the stains of reality, the brown, decaying bitter ugliness. You are watching the blade tear open the universe. ...THERE HE SITS AND WAITS