in the mud there are rainbows...
and the rainbows may come from this thing that is killings us.
well, it's not killing us but we kill ourselves with its use.
isn't it funny how the earth creates everything, and we can morph that into life and death and rebirth and reuse and slander and slaughter and laughter and...
...and then there is the sound of the brook next to me and the water inside. and I remember its just cycles and circles, cycles and circles.
oh what joy to live in this magnificent playground of oil and rainbows and rainbows of oil!
of murder and massacre and saviors and saints. of saints who massacre murders in rainbows of unneeded guidance!
and how my blood red boots can paint smiles on faces of strangers who aren't here to be saved.
