Examine the blissful distaste for uncommonality with the moon's deprivation of the wolves howl. The sun doesn't deserve your hate or your distaste for the trances of those you call insane. Illusion is all you grasp so hold your faith tight between two fingers on different hands. The moss will grow on the trees tomorrow but your soul will fade like the love for your mother once did. But it won't grow back again. Hold yourself tight in the heatless night. Dream about the distasteful redemption that will never come to carry you away to the death you dream of. Rescue from the discomfort that you think life is. Fly with the hawks high over head, the eagles, dive like the falcon, but never stop, crashing into the barren soil in which dreams are never grown.