Its time to talk, fellas.

In an era where nostalgia reigns supreme, there is a sublime artifice in the extant -- _the_ extant -- of our meaning.

You follow, right? There couldn't be an intermittent heartflob, a pointless dissection of what ants do for fun.

Of a desperate unwelcome visitor overstaying their welcome.

That has been the continuum, of course, every second some little girl in kindergarten is quoting you verbatim, coincidentally, and its not even interesting when she says it.

Its an easy callous to roost and chew on: once-contemporary admirations have aged into styrofoam shrines chipped and moldy; New generations punch their way to the same pitfalls in unrelenting waves; your past is set and your future is bridled; most of your 24 hours are accountable to something else.

Giraffes we, chopable necks comfortably grazing.