Thing have been up, up shit creek. Nothing on the horizon? I don't even see a fucking horizon. I am overwhelmed even by these harsh, decaying surroundings of discarded ideas.
What is to become of me? What am I to do about it? I feel my soul is locked in a dugeon beneath my feet. Sentenced to a thousand years of hard, tedious labor while engulfed in darkness.
It is brilliant, spirited and wild one, but locked away.
All grand, triumphant ideas are that alone, just ideas.
Nothing can be done outside this bunker, as there is no outside to speak of.
