The sky is blue, the grass is brown. My head is buried inside this helmet. The ever present threat of parasites. So take my hand, let's get these motors running.
They are the nameless victims of a generation lost. Searching for somewhere to exist. Held captive by our mistakes. Weak and unable to resist. . Resentful minds have ruled too long.
So this is continuous happiness. You know, I always. Imagined it something more. With the right drapes, the right paints. The right frames, this could really work.