My Love

Rockets around my northern territories, but I always counter by blowing up the airport and all of the points of ingress and egress; with me on the other side heading south fast. Cue his back and the sun setting, because we need stones to touch, being blind, and our happy endings, being stupid. We see what we want and through the rest, or pretending, trying to. Thinking is not a learn by rote activity, that is the sound of the surf breaking on some shore. There are no good actors in this, just people who try to do right, and those who don't care; because I'm tired of the gray, and the empty words of the evil, their scriptwriters, the lapping masses. Tragedy is our favorite sport, and no ball on this ball can touch it; but why is it all so funny?