i find an unbearable burden in truth and sentimentality, they are my bugaboos. the remnant responsibility to just be good has transgressed and transpired through years and years of time not spent being well. as a tenant trying to responsibly spend my time well, i'm a being bent. perplexed as usual, like a suspect in disaster. through a murderous time hell bent at the bottom collecting cents, i gather my prospects and head toward the clatter in search of something common, some sense of the matter. but we shatter in a crush. i like mine in slimmer, hushed tones. a subtle blush, like brushed chromes without the shimmer and glee of a pimped degree. some debris naturally cast a suture on the past i future, i mean, i could have been cast as an astronaut. instead i taught all my genes to be divinely dressed debonairs of culture, creation and care. with the hair on my head i pro-poorly propose my state to be unrelatable to any human in history because if they can't understand the gravity of a globe this golden, then their secret has sold them to a fate not chosen. reminiscent of the son of Odin, there is always a purpose to the power you're holding. as the days are unfolding into the night, will you become a being of mischief or a being of might?