I'd rather, in stead of a autobiography, an urban verse.
A face masks. Concrete and glass cannot reflect the intellect, we collect verbs and rhymes, like clocks and times, we, hang on a pendellum swing, hoping for an angel to sing and mask this tick-tock descent into...
A scent of metal, iron hive in which we live, on a quest to find, yet we never give, our centers are dark, stark, unchanging, and our world's ever-ranging, yet....
We mask, we hide, we mask, we run from the spotlight and become night, become like, insects crawling, like, crawling insects, like the various 'intellects' who have nothing to reflect.
A mask!
