have found myself but I have found no one else,
I am discovered, But in a dingy baige room with closed windows, what good is knowing yourself if others do not? There is no Joy in Solitude.

I, the fool prattle on about troubles I know not, So far ahead the suffered, am I the blatent Git, my troubles linger on in my worthless self inflicted plague, to whine and moan and scamper off on things i've never known,

the expender of oxygen, the wastrel of food, Have been purchased from the dollar store of life, to this new purpose I am betruthed to follow, the abandoned paths across the social antartic and the mental volcano