from the day we arrive on the planet we are taught to live our lives as we intend to plan it. then time flashes forwards for a handful of years, our bones become thickly coated with splashes of resentful residue, while we constantly continue the strive to survive this plan that we fight so hard to contend with. there always seems an urgency for a current wife to pretend with or the far-sided fable of a beloved baby in a cradle. does anybody really care as long as the currency's stable? others lie suspended in a flurry of affairs as long as they're physically able. while their mental composure of what's left nervously breaks down into compounds of careless compromises of the wasted years, they attempt to rebuild on a forsaken ground. they may even find the foundation sound, atop the cold remains of those broken bones. that's when i'll climb up that long slanting stone over the valley and announce the fate of the world among a circle of lives. widowed wives masked by shadowy sighs, eyes too thick to see freely. i'll only whisper, it's just a pattern. an endlessly shifting cycle of strife to keep up with the neverending circle of life.