Saturday, August 23, 2008
Idle Thoughts of a Nonconformer
Now is the hour of my imperfection. Send me into the storm, float or sink. Here is proof I do not rust. Like a bubble I float. Oil and water do not mix.
We were wild youth, huddled in the dawn, making love in the face of the night. Free we were to follow the wind, defying all law and convention.
Yet the conventions snuck in during our earliest years, before the pass was guarded, conditioning us to seek and consume.
I am an exile of the night; there is no place for my kind, except for the vanishing wilderness, or the compunction of the considerate.
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