Sing It, Bluesman! Or Don't. Just Be Drunk Instead.

Let us all rejoice for our heads are bulbous and our souls are treacherous. We do not steal from the gold pit, we mitigate it's sadness. We leave behind a stench of decadence like a cloak of happiness for those without. We look upon the derelict house we once were told was our home and slip upon the ice to crack open our tiny childish dreams. We treat our weariness with gray liquid, sullied, staunch, and sanguine. A complexion of rouge blooms under our cheerfully flat eyes: we are complacent and we toy with ideas of grandeur. We, at one point, let our hands lose grip of our passports, our mainline, our poor, poor dayjobs. We, at some point, saw the ship approach to take our love away. We, at no point, lose the will to take matters into our own hands. We are together in this because we have no more to be sorrowful for. For sorrow beholds that which is empty. Like a ragdoll. Or a pin cushion. For we laugh upon sorrow's rapturous journey through our lives. We look straight into the soothsayer's eyes and declaim, "Low and behold! The drunken taxi driver keels over, perilous and dry, finally bringing us to our final destination!" We do not cry tears in the booze. We cry like the orphan who spies the lurid details of a lonely man losing his virginity. We cry out in agony and lust. We cry for the dreadnought who surpasses our very desires. We pain ourselves to seek that which won't be made clear: if it were just the future than it would soon be the past. So let us rejoice. For the future is always there. To be taken like a pinprick.