We have no ideas.
We have nothing in us, nothing outside of us.
Our skin is made of glass.
Instead of blood and bones, we have only air.
We are supreme emptiness.
We are skinned weasels.
We are broken lightbulbs, bobcat toenails, sugar cubes.
We are sexy horribles.
Aspire to something? What for?
We are glorified gorillas,tangles of could-have-beens...
we are drunken kites, floating, because we are also drunken wind.
