alone_core skinny living by myself, in a trailer, by a riverside, where the grass is yellow and windswept, getting high and fishing, like i saw an indian once do. it is ok because it's the only future i can imagine. it is ok because i don't know anything. crickets sing their mangled hymns. where are these cricket hymnals. these white, white people come by looking blue, i wonder what is all beneath their skin. listen to folk-alternative low-fi folk rock and watch the bright and layered front of pollution pushing itself north through the trees and bushes and electrical wire and downward into constricting lungs divided divided again in the alveolies seperated and pushed into the v e i n s, thriving in the soil and pores of cat faces, cells of the honey comb hiss with acid. leaves it's little black mark on the river bank. where is the pop scene, this nation was founded on boredom. i am the childrens_crusade, settling in the shade near toadstools and insects, steve is watching the archers, the archers are ok. 050119 what's it to you? who go blather from