Take onto me a weight of soup and oatmeal like I'm responsible for feeding the mouths of cute
idiot children just because they're short haired boys who don't know what a cold-steel-gut feels like, the lucky little fuckers, but I'm tempted to kiss them all with an abusive sort of innocence-murdering-wisdom until they're just broken shoe-gazing parking meters and book-memorizing-automatons and do we even know what we need them for yet? Economists joke about it...
No one knows. Dead weight smokes newly legal pot and podcasts whatever sounds interesting.
It's an age of intoxicating marvel. Float on. Wonder about it. I have no idea where god went.
We killed it. Congrats.