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sat controlling fake commandants, yet never touch the
breeze, a condemnation from condensation those
siphoned dry still gather spores, they’ve made it easy
to while away the time that we have…
an unfit mind sits back and signs for new perfect ways
to waste our time, i try to imagine what lies in that big
brain of yours, the islandman doesn’t want for all the
things that we have…
to take a fertile piece of land build a simple home and
when something’s washed ashore we’ll take it, i will
take it. we have more, do we need more than we had?