No more or less. Seething in it, drinking it in. Living from it. Dying from it. Like the double edged blade it brings action, a cause, a will. However constant and changing the will may be. Yet burns out the remaining joy with bitterness knowing what is or what will be cannot and will not survive as its pursued by the certainty of failure.

Why do we beat our fists against this impregnable wall. Clamour for anything, something that makes us feel alive and free. It is inevitable, power is wielded and the peasants must bow.

Suffer. Die.

No matter what disguise they carry. What airs they believe they have. It comes to whats in the heart. And the heart of all is rotten. Each turned on the other. A constant competion. The eternal circle. A worldwide popularity contest. Unbeknown to only those who choose to drop out.

But what is better? Of course it is to burn with agonizing hate to all around in their monotonous exsistance. They have eyes but how are they yet to see? When the hammer falls so shall they. Being lead blind to the slaughter already. Yet when will the realise that they are already dead? Murdered decades ago but only now life is bleeding from them into the sodden earth that is bloated from centurys of ignored slaughter. Difference? Independance? Choice? That is but another barrow of rancid meat fresh from the abattoir.

So I shall pray for thier deaths. I will beat my hands against this impregnable wall till they bleed. I will live outside in hate and therefore happyness. I will watch the world fall and know. I can fight the tide, I can live through the exhaustion, the cold of loneliness will not overcome me.

But I am a peasant.

And I cannot survive the shark.