Ohhh time. Sweet sweet time. Ain't she a folksy analogy I came up with to illustrate her ("her" serving as an indication of my use of metaphor) tumultuous, turbulent traverse through our life travels. Why, just a year ago- has it really been that long? (it has)- a young man named Zigzog decided, nay, declared that there was a change coming. Why, can't you remember the way the winds changed that day? A young Slammin, brimming with enthusiasm, not yet torn asunder by life's cruel misgivings; would we ever see that sweet smile again, the one stolen from us by this cruel same analogy I used earlier in an attempt to make it seem like this is a long thought out concept when it reality it merely serves as a cheap attempt at cohesiveness. Or Sarah; time's long crusty fingers have placed unto her an inordinate amount of power: has she used it for good? Can we even say if we understand the concept of good? Or using things? Do you still hear the call of Bill disagreeing with you, the distant sounds of Flowergirl disagreeing with you, or KanyeBowie disagreeing with you and calling you a fag? Sometimes I think they're all there, behind these black walls in front of me, but alas, all that remains is a 3x3 thread where everyone's been listening to Flower Boy. Where are the streams? Where is the plug? I remember a time, not so long ago if I remember correctly (note: I do, I am merely illustrating how folksy and remember-y I am. Do not interpret this in a way that would make it seem like my memory is not ok, because it is, it's really good ok? Can we stop fucking talking about it now? Jesus), when I could awaken to see the words "FRESH" and "WRI$T" in the same sentence. Now, I don't even have my own wrists. Time. She's a wild horse.
The days of old are long gone. Why do I remain? Why do any of us remain?