This hand crabbed from the key dulled letter Sits, paleolithic, on the obsolete absolute page Its grip reduced to a spastic C Illustrating some text on graphology Section graphomania, dangers of. Notebooks Hanself and gretel back to the storied youth And up to the man long in the tooth If teeth there are so wrought by seasons Of unheeded sugar, the slave produce stored In poisoned plenty – is it not in this plenty I lived? And how my happiness grieved To see its imperial thunder mocked and tin Reduced to a mere tinkle in the heart. But what of it, weeper? Is it proved That the grave’s your major stockholder at fifty? As though out of stiff fingers no nifty Thought could throw off smothering bone And you have to face alone, alone.
“I’m so bored. I hate my life.” - Britney Spears
"Never for money/always for love" - The Talking Heads