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Broken ankles only reflect the mind's walk.
Running races gets hard when it turns out
it's only running in circles and the goal
to be reached is a false faximile of what's
to be obtained. Is there a real goal or is
there only the imagination running it's own
race on broken ankles? When these goals are being
chased after on gimped appendages, weither it be
the legs or the mind, it's appropriate to recollect
and reflect on the knowledge of the past. Too many
questions have yet to be asked and these goals only
seem to distance themsleves further or disguise
themsleves so as not to be seen by the injured runner.
Where does this all lead? Possibly to a section of the
universe where circles are transformed into straight
lines and the strong become weak. Or maybe there IS a
finish line and a destination prize that can only be
obtained through hard work and determination and the
struggle for a way to make things better. But who's to
say? Give the racer some water and a bandage and let them
finish this race that possibly has no end and maybe, just
maybe, there will be a means to this insanity.

Green gorillas and Maroon monkeys run rampant through
the field of a sightless shepard. Along with radiant
lycus' and liquid roses, these bold beasts flood the
shepard's pastures with pugnant excrement and make it
hard for this blind servant to walk straight lines
around his flock.

On the wings of a glorious dove, I fly. With the strength
of all those which I know no names, I fly. The top of an
atmosphere that glows with the pollution has only been more
gorgious when the world began. But still that same pollution
is what kills the innocent doves and the nameless barbarians
and makes it hard to fly, killing my soul, and making it
difficult to breathe. The air is thin and polluted and now
that the doves and the barbarians are dead, I fall. Into
this black abyss of confusion and turmoil, I fall, and can
fly no more.