Don't You Feel Them?

These chains that round our wrists, the gossamer shackles binding our ankles to the ravenous past.

Years run through fingers like sand, rubbing our skin to wrinkles and our hands to rheumy knobs. A fire burns inside my chest. A need, a compulsion.

To leave my mark, to make something, be a part of something larger than myself. But this is the year when pontification will flow like a broken tap; the feeling of forced transition.

FUCK.