It takes some skill; running through a pane of glass and emerging without a cut, without a bruise, or a scratch. and all I can say is fuck the times that we've had. when you're on the road again, where to the only end. if tomorrow is the same as the 415 days before it can we end this, or at least not pretend this is the sun, the stars, the cosmos. divided, gun in hand. a young one's dreams or the worker's master plan.
None of the above.