the neighborbood
in the neighborhood, there were 20 children.
the children laughed all the time, and they
ran around all the time. They loved to go
to the back of town so they could get away
from the center of the town. In the center
of town there was always a busy market, and
you had to run hastily to every appointment
or else you would be shuffled back into your
appropriate housing. Like the 20 children's
parents, the appropriate housing always had
a million innapropriate passtimes, with which
you could pass the time. As the time passed
though, the back of town became a dull and
drab escape, and soon going there, was no
better than going to the center, because in
the back it became a system. It became a way
of life that made you shut out others just
to get what you want. The children could not
be the same anymore because they could
not trust in the others to be the same. the
very idea that you would let someone roam
through the center of town without his best
hat and coat on would make things uncertain.
Why let them play in the beautiful escape of the town than just live there and actually

care about responsibilities
care about your hat and coat
care about your stupid fucking market
in your stupid fucking town.
cause the more we make the more we throw away
and the more i get to take care of throwing away
the less people care about taking care of me.
and the more i care about being taken care of
the more i am supposed to take care of myself.
can't i take care of you, my 20 children, can't i be with you and make you run and rush to every single appointment you make to run. It's the chase it's the cut too it's the run, it is our endorphins.
all the days wont end with the town in this shape, because people might one day realize the town doesn't fucking matter, the market doesn't fucking matter, the children dont fucking matter, nothing fucking matters, besides each other, so how about you just
not care, about stuff you care about
right?
wait, no you dont do that either.
but wait , there's no such thing as satire,
there's no such thing as satire, of satire.
i give up because, your playground makes me feel like a two year old fool, why dont you just love me like i want you to, cause that's all i could know, is what i could think love would feel like, and how i could think love would let me be. in harmony. (like musical sounds harmony)
instead.
you leave me feeling dissonance,
but you probably dont even know what that means, or why it matters.



ah, pickle,
if i can't get to one base, i must go back to the other
ah, pcikle,
you make me fucking sick.