This is ForThis is for all the orphaned childrenMore Like This
This is for all the widows
This is for all the lonely greivers
This is for all the kiddos.
This is for all warriors of old
This is for all the explorers
This is for all the hearts of gold
This is for all the soldiers.
This is for all the diggers of trenches
This is for all the pilots
This is for all of humanity's wars
This is for all the riots.
This is for all the honored heroes
This is for all the pained
This is for all the generations
This is for all we've gained.
This is for all the creative inventors
This is for all the writers
This is for all the history changers
This is for persistent fighters.
This is for those who stood up for their rights
This is for those who are free
This is for those who changed our minds
This is for those who see.
This is for those who write our story
This is for those who give
This is for those who scour the earth
This is for those who live.
Lament of the Merciless I haven't slept in trillions upon trillions of years.More Like This
I've been here far longer than your puny planet has. In fact, "here" is an overstatement. I've been around since before "here" existed. Before anything existed.
I'm not immortal. I'm not human, either. Something much greater than your mind can comprehend.
So stop trying.
Believe it or not, if it weren't for me, you wouldn't have a mind to even TRY to comprehend with. Because you wouldn't exist. In fact, you don't exist. Ha!
Hm, perhaps the little human doesn't understand. Perhaps it doesn't understand how UNBELIEVABLY MICROSCOPIC it is. What a pity.
I'll explain it for you, so try to keep up. We'll start with you. You are one of billions of humans on Earth. Small, right? I've watched every person live out their life since people crossed over to the Americas. You caught my interest, actually. So I started watc
Cupid on Third Shift1More Like This
The cutting floor is cold, but we’re all sweating. The conveyor belt groans as it brings a new piece of product every few seconds, hanging by the bone like a macabre puppet or something at a Third World market. It isn’t exactly music to my ears, but I’m used to it. Likewise, moving the knife through skin and fat is about as natural as breathing by now, so I let my eyes wander to find some distraction. It isn’t that the girl across from me with the olive skin and curly hair bound up in a hairnet is pretty, although she certainly is. It’s the air of grace about her, something like the face on a votive candle. I’ve never seen her before, but they move us around every night like musical chairs, so that’s not saying much.
She notices me, and I smile at her as the next piece of product moves under my knife. Then my hard hat slips over my eyes. Of course I act like such an id