Menaced by whiteness and mocked by a patently dynamic mic with pretensions to proximate knowledge, one eulogistic slam-body hustles for allotted time on the rusty-red carpet grown over the gray-party scale of mimetically dying old worlds that if we keep going like this will nevertheless and inevitably be left for our children to sort out.We put ourselves into the position of these children and ask if they would have wanted to keep what we wanted for them based on the fact that we thought what was good enough for us should be good enough for them.
Blasted trees perch from the limbs of extinct vultures. Not only do our children call them lichen. They also find it in their hearts to love them.
