what an insane utopia it has become?
these days dressed in wine and self loathing.
one mouth slanders a whole life
we watch and laugh
but all the while the tides ebb and fade
this utopian ideal was birthed at Time's first birthday.
and it will die at Time's funeral.
the switchboard has been recovered in the ruins, and new hands control our utopia.
the explaination is in the news, in the lies of the mouth on the face of the world.
But the changes reflect the faces of us who do nothing to sway against.
