Listen to the children.
For they are the dreamers
that keep the infinite seemless.
They are the ones that keep reality
from being meaningless.
They can still imagine.
And havn't yet forgotten who the
voices in their heads belong to.

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Inspiration comes from only Dylan and Marijuana.
Bass from stolen speakers.
Incessant encouragement from the combination of ocsillating fans,
And a bobble-head Scooby Doo.

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Poetry is nothing but run on sentences,
Jazz nothing more than an entire language of imaginary syllables.
Which tends to make us poets and musicians seem pointless at times,
Unless you consider imagination a virtue,
Then you are fucked anyway.

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