We are the unlucky dreamers who joke about things that shouldn't be as amusing as we pretend it is. Your heartbreak spills out the front door; come on now, be responsible. Do you think this world is big enough for your pain? The ferns and the trees talk back to you so you beat them; your rage contributing to the trail that is begging to be travelled. If you walked down it, you'd realize the plants do more than taunt. Look at me go. You don't know anything about me so don't judge so tough. Son of a beesting. These unnecessary risks would apease me somewhat; you tell me not to jump, but I'm only trying to fly. Can't you see my wings? I'll be fashionably late to the bottom of the canyon and you can tape the whole thing on your iphone. Dodge the strawberry guava and you're golden, child. See you, eventually. Maybe when I'm old enough to be taken seriously. Kid.
Says Lydia Mouse at 26.5.10