It’s so-o gol-darn odd that we get old and break.
I don’t like it.
Wait ’til I get my hands on those silly Archangels inventing this crap.
But gratitude for tender air on our cheek, cozy warmth over our skin, bright blue day, knowing a bit, and seeing much drift by, maybe rot is tolerable, ey?
Our boomagism oughta be headlines.
Much we deny, but why ending?