this life… this 9 to 5… this boy without a home out of a home. I’m too busy strumming my sensei’s guitar to hear your lovely voice. the voice from a past life soul sister; my love. There is no clean slate, how can one’s slate be clean in this paradox of a world. I have no slate. I am not a politician whose words must be correct. There is no politics on my side of the mountain. On my side we pay for food with poverty. We pay the revolution off with passivity. Tell lies to my vision why don’t you. I am never lost forever confound to this shit of a place. Death to the race, and races let’s try stillness. Let’s be water or a candle lit fire whichever gets the job done. Who are the choosen ones; is it you? me too