We walk man made streets of burning coal, swallowing their bile and spitting champagne. Our tattered rags are our tuxedos benefactors in thieves attire, decieving post-dated ideas on life support that are in need of pulled plugs. Cover us in your blankets of insensitivity and we'll soil them with laughter in our sleep. Piss on us and we become duck feathers. Aggravated indigestion bares satisfaction in toilets flushed by the hands of desire. Our crosshairs will never aim at utopia but our trigger fingers are offten itchy when surrounded by the likes of the vagrant minded. Reality bears the fruit of an awful punchline sometimes; and there's nothing funnier than a dead comedian, now more than ever. We love to fuck and fuck to love and will never die satisfied. Our brains are our burden. Our lives an instrument.