in the mist there stands the figure of a portly scruffy wanderer, he bumbles to and fro with his stave, he pokes at objects foriegn, probes powers yet unknown, leaves them dishevelled, and so crass, he violates laws he does not know, and takes no precaution not to, he slanders so many without his intent, he is the fool that so many must deal with, he is the fool that so many resent.

no taunt greater than eyes that are strong but a mind that cannot perceive what they see. the images that they know, and the images that ALL know, but that which you cannot grasp, or notice, in folly you are assailed, in venting you become the assailer, in victory you know not, in victim you know true.

an arbitor of distaste am I, the connessier of annoyance, a purveyor of tragedy, and the taster of fine defeats.

the recipe to life is never made from scratch, its ingredients range here and there, components never match, three tablespoons of utter folley, two cups of nice defeat, a bowl of wasted chance, and stir vigorous Then eat. Choke on chunks of inflating sorrow, cough up bits of faltered words, burn your tongue on what you've missed out on, lodge it deep in battered throat.

Opportunity is merely the concubine to defeat, It lures you to your pain, in midst of chances will you find you knee deep in failures you have made.