TELL THE FATTY ONES WHERE THE LITTLE ONES HIDE

There is no ugliness. Not really. Every man you find will kiss anything. Sleep with anything. That's true.

Abandoned on an island. Monkey lover.

True.



Here's a pregnant lady in a bikini.



Here she is showing off the flatness of her ass and odd bumpage of her torso.

La-ti-effing-da.

YOUR LOVE IS MY DIARETIC.

There is something all too real about hopelessness. It begins in the teen years, before disappearing for a decade when post-20s you realize it has ripened inside of you.



We fight to live, because if we did not - where would we go? For men, or for me, at this point, the only thing worth living for is the love of a beautiful woman.



There is a chance she will never come, and if she does, will not love me back.



There is alcohol and frivolous living to keep us occupied. Falling out of parked cars and shattering bottles out of apartment windows. We drink, we laugh, we act like tomorrow matters.



Then we play at those things that we pretend to take seriously. We need something to be serious as seriousness is real. It carries weight in the world.

In the end, you're only as alive as your last breath. Only as serious as your last thought. Only as in love as your last kiss.

So dear, find me. Kiss me and I'll never let you go. We can spread our fires across this world and never look back. We'll always have the thought that today could be our last and even if it isn't, does it really matter all that much?

CAN'T SAVE THE DAIRY FOR THE MEAT

My love is the moist tendril of tropical tubors.



Your love is the deep well, the stomach of an acorn fed pig.



Together, we are the opening shit of a brand new existence.

HUMAN DAIRY OF A GIVEN WORLD

LIFECYCLE: Sperm hits the egg. Deet deet deet. Newborn from the vagina of a healthy woman. Lips to nipples for 365 days.

This continues until you realize there is no hope, no chance of a life outside of your own skin, so you grow more and more determined to return to the inside of another.

This happens. This repeats. Work pays the bills but a paycheck is in the currency of a lost civilization that isn't going anywhere. This should be ignored. The internal world is all there is. Life designed by science designed by a life attempting to fold into itself.

At a certain temperature, I'm sure, skin will not burn but only melt. Bring man to woman and let sizzle. You will, eventually, mold into one demented form on single life.

tada.

YOU'VE BECOME NO JOKES FOR COMMON KICKS

IN THE YEAR 2020: Nothing will matter. The national anthem, "Nothing Else Matters," will bring everyone to orgasm. Instead of weepy patriotic tears, there will be streams of cum and vaginal discharge, the state fruit of California.

GOT IT ALL WRONG IN ALL THE WRONG WAYS.

TOPIC:

You, male. Polite and conservative.

Her, fun and outgoing.

Fun & Outgoing = a few moments of "recreational sex"

Polite & Conservative = no moments of "recreational" use of another person

You have a girl in your bed, which you love, who has been in the beds of other men, which she did not love. She is surprised to hear it bothers you. She is also surprised to hear that, with all of her past dating liasons still around, saved in the cellphone for hang-outs, you are bothered by this as well.

And in the back of your head all you can think to tell her is, "Grow up you fucking slut," but instead you quiet up and apologize after a few hours with an "I love you."

Perhaps the question is who is the one that needs to grow up?

THE ART OF THE SIN BETWEEN HER LEGS.

As a man, one of the greatest pleasures I have is the act of eating pussy. Some would argue that actual intercourse is better, but fucking can be replicated by many things - your hand, a warm (large) peice of holed fruit, plus countless vaginal replications. Being between a woman's thighs and tasting her as she soaks herself is something you cannot fake the feeling of. There is no non-acoholic version of this taste. No options for the man without a woman in his life.

The first moment her lips are tight together, warming up to its own secretions. It's not a stink, but the smell of her - the clean cotton of her panties and the left over dried dampness of her urine and sweat sucks you in. The first taste is bitter and tinged with salt, after a few laps of the tongue you put her pussy all in your mouth. Go at it like a watermelon, full-lipped across her vagina, before your tongue pinpoints the little button immersed in her skin.



When this photographed popped up, my first thought was of course I wish there was more there to see. Perhaps legs further apart, plus the absense of any hair is a disappointment. Then the fantasies hit; fingering her as we drive down Sepulveda. When she's wet enough, she bucks her hips lower in the seat so I can grab the shape of her ass as it shifts into her thighs. Maybe she fingers herself for a bit and tastes it. It makes her laugh, so I do the same. It's night so she doesn't worry about being seen as much as she should. I turn the stereo down so we can here the slipping sound of her fingers rubbing over sticky lips.

Her hand reaches across my lap, but I brush her away. This is my moment. What I want to do. I feel her breasts over her shirt, the stiffness of her bra, the bobbing of her tits. Two tips of my fingers fit inside of her, she reclines the seat just enough for me to go deeper and scratch the inside of her. The flesh inside, dense over bone and with little give but my palm is pushed against the wet and flimsy skin of her pussy, her clit there somewhere and she moans and mentions something about "...watch you cum..." but doesn't finish her thought as her eyes stay fixed on the mess between her legs, the leather of the seat slicked with her self-made water.

Anyway. This is only a bit. Thoughts like this flash in a second. Two at the most. Maybe lasting a minute before the brain moves on and on to some other stimulus. Later I wonder, "Why the fuck did I daydream about eating Britney Spears pussy out?" But I did. There. Worse things could happen. Maybe I've always held a certain place in my celebrity-likes for Spears, even though she's borderline disgusting, there is a sweetness to her. The kind of girl that finds it sad that in Full House the reason everyone lives there, in the "Full House," is because the girl's mother died. "Poor Michelle will never get to know her mama, ya'll."

Man, all this just because my female companion has felt "dirty" so I haven't eaten her out in a few weeks. Plus, my blowjob receival numbers have been down. I have gotten plenty of sex lately, just not a lot of the "do whatever" spirit that I need to feel fulfilled.

Because in the end, even I don't want to fuck her in the ass at the moment, it's good to know I have the option.

REMOVE THE MOTION AND FOLLOW THE EASE.

Every morning I do my best to stay "normal." I think of Hemingway and tell myself that before lunch I will have chosen a foreign war to get interested in. I will plan for my first few wives and what sort of children I will have with them. My first wife, the bookish intellectual who never touches my balls during a blowjob. The charming social butterfly who freezes up when I finger her asshole. The woman in plain clothes with the belly laugh, she'll die with me at the point of old age. Ignoring numerous affairs with prostitutes and my penchant for repeated fucking even after my ejaculate has run dry. She won't love me but we will find a common ground of trust and friendship. She'll wear a bikini poolside and skinny dip when we are alone. We will never have children, knowing that the faults and poor qualities in each other do not need to be repeated in a child.

Yet none of these future women will get to see what I need them to. Certain conversations will never get finished and my need to accomodate others will leave me unsatisfied with life. I am on the path to chronic depression shadowed by a heavy heart that gives to those I love, or think I should love. I play my part because I wrote it. I want to see how it ends. Living life as an experiment, hoping that I'm right and in the end those around me will understand what it was I was trying to do. "What are you trying to do?"

Take control. Of everything inside of me. Swing my desire. Punish my timidness with abrupt bouts of over confidence. Designing a man for myself to become, and sculpting my being into that man. The Perfect Man. Undying and unflinching. The giver and the taker. The builder and the destroyer. The only living God amongst those that do not believe it is possible.

A lonely soul of fire.

WHERE WE REALIZE SEX IS REALLY OUR OWN.

Perhaps as we fish around our lived neighborhoods for common cuts of people, we find a suitable face, an appropriating body to link to. What is this? Dessertion of ourselves? Escaping to join someone else's world through putting skin to skin, flesh into flesh. This is called "fucking."

And then they leave. You leave. These bodies part ways, but then it happens again, now it's someone different. Freshly shaved pubic hair. Your breasts are different to him. His chest wider than the previous man. This happens and it goes. You leave. They leave.

On again. New person. New body cavity, new apendage. Then over and out.

At the end of the day, today, you look back and count (whispered, of course) and you think, "not so bad. It's a normal amount." The thing is, you carry this with you. This is not the benefit of experience, it is the detriment of the empty temple.

If on your death bed no one loves you perhaps it's because you never loved anyone enough to stay away, and wait. Your future started when you were born, and if you never dreamed of a unique love for yourself, you never worked for it, it never came. You're left with people, names that lasted awhile, but never dug deep into your heart and life. Don't just take what is in your arm's reach, this is not a standard bearing deserving of anyone.

It is better to have a perfect bubble than a fractured home. Protect what you have when all you have is yourself.

UNFORGIVENESS IS UNFORGIVENING

"LIFE WITHOUT PASSION IS UNFORGIVABLE. "

"Yeah, I'm so not unforgivable then."

"YOU GOT PASSION? THAT'S HOW YOU LIVE?

"Passion. Yup."

"TRY THIS NEW COLOGNE, UNFORGIVABLE."

"No, I live with passion, so I'm not unforgivable."

"IT'S MINE. I MADE IT. TOTALLY SMELLS HOW I LIKE TO SMELL THINGS TO SMELL."

"Sure."

"UNFORGIVABLE."

"I'm not though. I'm forgivable."

"ABSOLUTELY. UNFORGIVABLE."

"No, Puffy. I'm forgiven because of my passionate life. I do things. Manage. Control. Conquer."

"THAT'S RIGHT. JUST THE MAN TO WEAR UNFORGIVABLE."

Okay, Sean John Puffy Combs Diddy. When you say "life without passion is unforgivable," can't we gather that a person shouldn't want to be "unforgivable?" Who wants to be unforgivable if it means you've lived without passion?

So, question.

Why fucking name your cologne (fragrance of the fledging Abercrombie set) Unforgivable? What you are saying is a negative thing. You made the description, the word "unforgivable," a way of life no one should want because that would mean you lack passion for living. If you had to pull a word from your quote, wouldn't "Passion" be a wiser choice for a name?

Fuck wise, right? You made a celebrity cologne. When has that proven to be a smart business move, outside of the White Diamonds bathroom cabinet? Britney's Curious? Check Walgreens. Pretty well stocked. You'll make your millions, of course of course, but it won't prove your grammatical worth.

Whatever. Just don't try and write a book, but if you do, choose poetry please. Or a self-help book. Your brilliance is unforgivable.

No seriously, that's a good thing.

WHAT HAPPENS IN WAR STAYS IN WAR.

The news media can be mocked readily, as they tend to fail at bringing "news" but succeed in fabricating jumbled nonsense and then present it as important, all with that winsome smile of the amiable mentally ill. So relating a story that greeted me today, I've re-written the headline, draining the caustic sponge of excess and leaving what I would like to call the "news fat."

MEDIOCRE COMMUNITY COLLEGE GAL NAMED BEAUTY QUEEN.

Isn't that the true travesty? An example of failed human judgment? Some group whose official duty it is to name beauty queens in the Minnesota area gave this honor to 22 year-old Jessica Gaulke, who is nothing above (physically speaking) your average girl that the world would never miss.



First, there is a ton of bullshit in the story. The point the media is focusing on is that she is off to Iraq AND she's a beauty queen. Like it's mind blowing that well groomed vaginas could, or would, carry a gun in the desert and shoot folks they've never met. Okay. It might work, it might get packs of beauty queens to join the Army.

The thing is, this girl joined the reserves years ago. She's no Pat Tillman here, giving up a million dollar career out of sense of duty. She goes to community college and from the looks of her, this whole "beauty queen" position wasn't exactly going to land her any big deals in Hollywood or Milan.



You know, hey, she's all right. Kind of cute. Not pretty. Not adorable or beautiful. Not "double take" worthy at all, but who is? This is obvious, so why would the media use her story? Is it to drum up support for the war? To show that various walks of life find their way to Iraq? She's going overseas because she signed a contract with the Reserves few years ago while a senior in high school, not exactly inspirational. Is it because they know she's not attractive, so how in the fuck did she become a beauty queen? Is it a joke? A sense of humor amongst this nation's editors?

"Check her out. Fucking beauty queen."

"Heard she's going to Iraq. Reserves or some shit."

"No shit? But she's a beauty queen. Check out that nose."

"Pretty unremarkable girl."

"Fuck it. Front page."

Welcome to your fifteen minutes, Jessica. In a span of two weeks you will be on Good Morning America, The Today Show, maybe Leno, some CNN program. Fuck it, Larry King might talk to you, but not about you, because this isn't technically about you don't forget, it's about the war and it's coverage. It's about the girl next door, not some dumbshit blockhead, signing up for the Army. It's about watching innocence and apple pie getting fitted for a bullet proof vest.

There might be a Movie of the Week when you get back, or if you die, better if you die, but that's for the papers to decide. Someone much prettier than you will play you, and when this TV version of you is a beauty queen it will make more sense than how it actually happened to you. When she dies it will be more tragic. The scene at the grave, as the flag is folded and handed off, your TV parents will cry. Of course this will make your real world parents cry, but they will do it on CNN or Larry King now speaking out against the war, asking, begging for answers, why innocent beauty queens had to die in Iraq.

But by then beauty queens will have enlisted in swarms. Like with blacks before them, they will get their own unit, pink sashes and all, they'll get teased and raped and one of them will earn the Purple Heart for getting shrapnel in her arm.

And that will be you. This will be your day. You will remember it all and if it were to manifest itself you would use the memory while in Iraq to masterbate to and you will start to wonder if female ejaculation is just a myth and you will recall the rest of your first day in the news as well, what else happened that ran parallel to your own news worthy life.

And you will remember this.



You shared headlines with the opening of Happy Feet.

I SAVE ALL MY SEXUAL FRUSTRATIONS FOR YOU.

Dear War Torn Planet Earth,

This is gargantuan, this moment I am having. Are you having it too? (Too, in the sense of "as well." Welcome to the English language.) There is the constant (favorite word) ache to get the fuck out of here. Of course, there is the short ordered reason. A semi-glaze of short-handed language.

Out there, on the existence of foreign topography, are the "nooks and crannys" of this world's (yours, see?) body. The "Body Planetary" if you will. With your shape are the shapes of others, mainly the round and plump rear muscles of the human female.



My lovely female companion has one of these on her. Beautiful to the fucking teeth. Armed in everything a woman has. The shadowy crevice, is it were, that you, Wonderful Earth contains, so does a woman's body. Of course, obviously, I have a limp cock in my pants yet can still ejaculate at any moment, an "inner-erection" if you will. It's spiritual. This constant burr in my loins is on the edge of eruption whenever I see a fine slab of a woman's rear. The dove tail of her underclothes, the furrowed indentation at the head of her ass crack.

All I can say is, I am not above admitting I have a distinct desire to lick and suck on a beautiful woman's asshole. To have her rest her cheeks on my face, like mounting a bicycle, is what I desire most right now.

My dear sweet female companion would oblige me of this, I believe. Yet, I am not man enough to ask this of her. So you, My Planet Earth, I ask to swing things my way. Do your spinning moves around the moon and what-have-you, to sway her mind and emotions cosmically. And if you could, while you are at it, please remind her heart and mouth that it would be all right, and would down right thrill me, if she said "I love you" more than once a week.

God Bless.

AT THE POINT WHERE EVERYONE SPEAKS IN HALF JOKES.

The perpetual boner that is the male underthing is a difficult item to understand, especially in the midst of subtle depression. Desire is as desire does. It most definately needs to go unspoken, but showered in glossy mentionings of every female body that passes, we utter our agreement to ourselves with the choices God of Lordness has made.

The vagina? Picture perfect.

The breasts? No complaints.

The ass? Brilliant.

I do prefer the darkened pancake nipple myself, those found best in vintage magazines and pubic hair'd porno of the '50s & '60s, but that is simply the preference of a man born of the age of the Airbrushed & Shaven.

I do, as it were, have a female companion of my own who tosses my member about. In the mouth and in the vagina. Very good. Very good indeed. What I ask is mostly agreed to, and that which I do not ask - well, I will grow up to asking. It takes a daring and strengthened man to look a loved one straight in the eyes and say, "Turn around so I can stick it in your ass then pull it out to cum on your face. Oh yeah, don't forget to suck it clean as well."

Such a man is either a dense idiot or a well loved gentleman brave even for honesty. I an neither of these. Yet.

At the moment I would like to meet this young thing -



A few things I know about her are:

01. She's English, of the Great Britain variety.
02. She's a tad chunky (I like that.)
03. She refers to herself as a glamour model.
04. She appears different in profile than she does dead on.
05. There is no way to be sure that her myspace page is actually hers.

Beyond this it is all guesses and common vagaries of imagination.

Is she a slut? Who knows, but the best guess would be "yes." And here's why. She poses nude for money. This is a known fact, sex sells. She is selling her sexuality to us all, there it is, tada. This becomes her worth. She could make money other ways, for her dignities sake, but she does not fear for her dignity, perhaps she sees it differently. Very well. A harem is always built up of floozies, that is it's purpose.

Anyway. Point?

Exactly, none taken.

As much as I would like to romp and roll with this young woman is as much as I would not be too thrilled to roll around town with her at my ready to meet family and friends. Not the sort of creature. Tada. Instant asshole. First and foremost, honest and hypothetical for sure, as always the best bets are.

This still does not change the shape of the picture in my cranial theater of her round flab cheeks grinding in and around my lap as the littlest me digs deep into the well of her English skin.



Again, tada. There is no need to imagine her at the bank or flossing her teeth. It never really happens. Real women, those that pose as cashiers and station attendants, only mimic flesh & bone. Ethereal. Simulacra of Mother Fucking Nature. Nautical compasses on land, destinations for lost heroes, so on and so forth. Anything twisting of language to avoid two words:

01. "Goddess"
02. "Pedestal"

A world without men is a dreamlife of breasts and plush mounds of river water'd vagina.

God Bless.

(pictures stolen from the thighmaster.)

WHAT'S THIS MASKED SILENCE OVER BROKEN BONES? IT'S NOTHING. A SUDDEN RELAPSE OF COMMON SENSE.

Be honest. Be upfront. All of that. What is this? This is about the future. So, there is someone, let's say it is a beautiful girl and that love is involved. We can even say that this love that is involved is unlike any other the giver of this love has felt. He is overwhelmed. Burning inside. He cannot see, or even pretend to understand, how he has gotten so lucky to have this beautiful girl to love. Now say that this beautiful girl loves him back and that her love is a considerable amount less that his.

She has loved before. She has been loved before, a great deal. This love involved many other men. There is sex involved, her experience. His? She is only his second. Him? The eighth man. The beautiful girl pulls along a bag that contains all of her past loves, these men who have embraced her over the years. There they are. Still.

Still. What is special? What makes a person special? I must admit I have an idea. I also must admit it is harsh and most people do not qualify as special in my world. One, you must see yourself as deserving, as special and therefore stay away from what could taint you. If you walk through life doing as you please, you might please to do something at a moment, at time, for a year or two, that you don't whole heartedly believe in. You are tainted. This departure from the "good" is what will never let you attain a higher status. Jesus saves and Jesus forgives, but the mind of a man is quite judgemental. I cannot save you. Only protect.

So what is this? A validation of weakness? That I cannot go on, sustained, higher and risen? Her departures will become my own? My Dear, it is fear. I have lived clean, stayed pure, and kept to a solid path. This is my own. Hers? It is hers. Now we must share and walk together or one of us will surely die, resting in Hell, clinging to a lost hope that was given up on due to the weariness of following "a good path."

There are temptations, My Dear, and to keep moving past them is tiring. But you must never give up, and if you do, it might just be that you never understood yourself in the first place. This, My Dear, is the worst sin of all.

If you do not know yourself, you cannot know anything else. This is the core of you. A solid mass is your truth that every one of your decisions and movements sprout from, each action carried out by that truth. This way, you will do no wrong and not get weary, because you can trust that you know you are going through life following what you believe in, and what you believe in is based on what you feel your life is. Selfish is important. It can be a positive quality. You cannot help others if you cannot define that term honestly for yourself. Why do you want to help others? Why do you want to do what you do?

Why do you want to fuck some random guy and call it an "adult decision"?

Yes. This is it. Rounded out. This "adult decision" is an immature excuse for being a slut.

Thank you and goodnight.

And yes, I am horrible. And yes, it does make me smile.

AND SO WE BRANDED OUR DEATH WITH A CARTOON KITTEN IN A TOPHAT AND BEARD WORTH DYING OVER.

What we awake every morning to find is, that honestly and truly, we can breath. If we never experienced sex or unhinged violence, we would still feel life. If we never felt love we would all keep it up, this life, this breathing apparatus, because that is first and foremost, our mind's only goal.

So why is that out of all that can be experienced, dealt with, dealt it, thought of and explored, do we need this in our lives? Good. Oprah doesn't eat pussy. I'm not gay either. No dicks in my mouth. Sure, we've all considered it. Why the fuck not. There is an honesty one needs to have with oneself. So?

So.
So I wished she would just say that the only orifice she likes to lick is Steadman's asshole, because in the end, that is love.

PORTRAIT OF: AN IRON GALAXY.

To think you have all of the answers is a slight towards the entire existence; if existence can be seen as a thing, a noun. An entity. If existence includes time, distance, and every physical being as well as each individual thought ever commited to private voices in hot ears, then it could never fit in a pocket or the palm of your hand. That isn't to say you shouldn't try, always try, always pull the whole goddamn world towards you, inside of you, and lick it to see if it tastes of salt like they said it would.

In the end it is all much larger than you. It is the stress of the pack mule, the elephant army tramping up slim canyons, that makes your shoulders tight and jaw clench when you sleep. This is the effect of constant work. The use of muscle for doing the impossible. To be human is to not be designed for eternal living and the breathing of fire. To be human is to accept the desire for eternal life and becoming the impossibilities of the world and to use this desire to acheive anything you can. This is the routine of the common failures. The money loss of poor investment, the limbs removed after useless war, because at one point it was believed that the end of each of these events would lead to you as The Giant. The King of Forceful Thought.

This could be you. Human to the bone.

PORTRAIT OF: THE LOVE IS FOR HIS DEATH.

He's old and he's dead and that is why I like him. His voice lacked anything of interest to me and I never felt a spark with his music. But still, here he is. A man. Born, loved, dead. There is more there but right now not much else matters beyond that.

The respect isn't for his music, which is of little consequence, it was the man and his ability to create and be loved that fills me. That is enough to say, "His blood is out there, driven into the earth. His fire and size still exists and I will find it and grow into a human statue."

FOR IT REALLY IS THE SEDAMENT THAT GETS YOU THAT FEELING, HIGH AND SICK, LOST AND CRASHING THROUGH GLASS.

"Keep going. Men just watch."

"Why is that?"

"We're not really here. We have no hearts."

"Then what is jealousy?"

"A mistake."

"It requires a heart doesn't it?"

"Some would say, yes."

"You don't agree?"

"I'm not at liberty to say."

"What is it you want? What is it you want me to do? To be?"

"It's too late."

"For what?"

"For me to be the first, to be special. It's gone and given away."

"So what now?"

"I'll just sit here, and watch you breath."

"Why don't you breath with me, together."

"My vanity can't let that happen. I need the undivided attention. Past, present, and future."

"I can't change the past."

"Just the future."

"You can have that."

"That's all I want from you."

"That's all I have to give."

"Everything else has been given away already."

"Yes. Yes it has."

"But there is a new life to create. A new hour that breeds a different day."

"Of course. I am on your side."

IF YOU CLOSE YOUR EYES, DON'T BUT FOR A SECOND, OR YOU MIGHT MISS THE CHANCE TO TAKE HOLD OF THE WHEEL AND CARVE YOUR OWN NAME IN ITS CENTER.

When the world crumbles, and it will, take it upon yourself to cover your screams. They will not help. Wash your hands of the dust of the dead cities and set about building something new. Something yours.

Pay no mind to the shouts of others, they have their own lives to live and need to find their own true path. Life is on constant repeat, and as easy as it is to fall off, it is to get back on and make it yours. To own the world in which you live.

THE BODY IS BIGGER WHEN ATTACHED TO THE MIND.

When something is created to mimic the love one has for the Lord, you in turn are patting yourself on the back. A slap of Triumphant Ego, a medicine to fight the weariness of constant sad days.

"We lift rock - the rock that we break from the mountains of earth. No one said it could be done, we didn't really ask, to turn shifting pebbles into a solid design of flat spirals into the heavens, but yeah. We did it. Fucking 'A."

- the Willing

WHO'TH BORN THE ELEVATOR? NONE OF THE TRANSIENT MINDED, BUT FULLBLOWN NATIONS OF BRAIN'D SOPHISTICATES.

Mistakes are the routine of everyday life. Trip and fall. Lose a phone number. Miss the alarm and sleep in until 3PM. These are forgiven by the ever present authority of the Glowering Lord In The Sky.

Who was it that held the world aloft? Ah, yes. Atlas. Poor man had it all wrong. What you are supposed to do is stand above the globe and lift with your legs, craddling the hemispheres within your arms. Meaning, never let the world on your back or else you will never get it off. Let it know who is boss and as soon as it becomes uncomfortable and lacks purpose, it will be dropped back into the black of lifeless space.

BABIES BORN OF IRON.

There is not only a chance, but the inevitable truth that if the world's water supply were to deplete or become completely unusable, a crack in the Earth's surface will form and out from it will surge a new ocean of pure water from the planet's heart.

The only way to live is by believing in the impossible.

THERE IS NO MISTAKE. THIS IS HAPPENING.

In most major areas of land there sits the idea of "Big Brother Is Watching." This idea rests on the back of all citizens, legs around fat ribcages like a straddling infant. We're supposed to be scared. To not want this constant watch of privacy. To question the authority that pins us down with its eye. We're supposed to want to tear it down.

We're supposed to care.

I hope Big Brother is watching. In fact, I hope to become Big Brother. The idea that Big Brother is attempting to do harm is etched in the head of those that are afraid to move beyond a certain comfort zone of low expectations and limp fisted mediocrity. All things big and small are man made, Earth made. The car is is just pieces of scrap found in rock. The man that can create a viable machine from dirt and stone is nothing to mocked. That man is made of fire and an iron will. Unforgiving and unrelenting. Unwilling to succomb to vague truth.

Perhaps Big Brother is watching in order to say, "Do better. Do something with your life."