. . . . more than the amount of stars in the multiverse, more
than the size of the sum total of all knowledge, more than the number or dreams dreamed by dreamers.
the immense size of the grave that ressurection doesn't cover-like an
insurance plan that you boss pays for, thinking more about profit than good.
profit is nothing-symbols and numbers that equate to little, flapping paper bits and tiddlywink coins that you lose in the couch and drop on the ground that no one bothers to pick up-like the government's trust in the people.
the flip side of that card is the old maid-the woman who
few know of and no one believes in enough to love
The few and mighty against the the ostrich-like masses-
the cockroach-like masses who scurry and and hide their minds
from the sun-the shining son-The few who attempt
to discover the shiny, shiny light are ridiculed-tossed aside like 2nd tier presidential canidates.
who was aware that we put those people on a pedestal?
they are no examples to my people-the people of amnesiac bats, falling onto the truth by predestined luck and fated chance
but unable to see it-just able to listen to the ultrasonic waves.
the ultrasonic waves of change-bouncing back from the problems that no one can see because we will not use our eyes, weak things that they are.. . ..