Guilt is in our palms. We raise them when we don't know. When we wish we did, and wished we could do something. What cold stares can chisel a man down to nothing. I have seen it in motion. The cracking of some inner moral wall. You don't wan to let go. Then persistence beats you down. Suddenly you feel raped and nervous. When you let that one person do that one thing your not supposed to let anyone due unless it's pre-approved, pre-stamped, in the rules. We hate to say no because this is a yes world. What pacifist pansies you all are. While I'm no different. I don't want to fight. I don't want to work. I want to build little bits of nothing, block by block, word by word. I don't care about people. So I get to the highest pedestal and cry the outrages of humanity. I bury myself in pop culture and scream that the television and radio eat us away. I wear the dirt of a hundred generations, and say I feel old. When do these contradictions go. When do i feel good being nothing, no one, don't care, so long? When does the nice way the light comes through my blinds feel nice again? When people kill themselves, there are those left who can't figure out why they would want to get away from them. That's why I put Hemingway at the head of this little strip of bullshit. He was a man who probably understood life and it's intricacies far better than I ever will. He shot himself in the head. When your father does it I suppose you may feel a tugging in your blood to end the insanity like he did. You have to think about death or you lose something. You lose that which makes you. You lose the true breath and reality of living.