With rapture spilling a hard disemboweled mess in the crest of our foresight, I pull the chain which drags a motley array of my generation while they mercilessly slobber in ecstasy and rage, gargling a vengeful, wanton craze, yet I pull this chain in hope to drain the squeals and cries which rain flooding from their cage, their doubts, their feats, regrets and tears assembled in an angry orgy of melting spears, and some of them help, but they help themselves, and I can’t help but feel abject and quelled, stoned to death among an absent drone, and sometimes I feel so disconsolately alone that I rack my brain tugging this chain and I know I can’t but I’ll never make it, it won’t happen, I will never clean us, but maybe that’s not the point, I mean, neither did Jesus.