Bus 67-Red Crystal Road

I'm not a writer I just spew a lot. Hey! Aren't I clever(he means not) too, no wonder I think about eating the gun I don't possess, but I know where to get one, in everybody else's abodes, just watch you drive away, in and out like a shot(ha); Bang Bang, my fine hated friend, but that's okay because I know you hate me back. We're all so wannabe rich and famous for a lifestyle choice and never have to worry about any choice met except for who you shit/shat on and spit/spite on and laugh at and befriend and bed and oppress and fuck and then kick off your boat in the Gulf of Wherever, hereafter, this will all be known as Gulf and we Gulfstreamers, floating self protected(ha) in our streams in bubble boy and girl poses, while we all bounce off each other like molecules in a bell jar under high heat. See? More stew. I guess all you can really do, is put one in front of the other until you can't anymore. Bigger Theist dreams wetly in deep sweet slumber safe in the bed of righteous sectarian surety, knowing that "the right people" are in control of the twin machines, politics and commerce; and what's tomorrow compared to the wire transfers and billable hours of today? We'll fix the air later, when it's economically feasible with the new technologies, and for fresh water we can siphon it off of the dying glaciers. How I long for monies end; and maybe when we've been culled back by our reckless disregard for all but fast forward, we may begin again, better for failing this one last more time. If you tell them to their face you aren't worthy, are you still liable when they don't believe you?