Look to your right.

Look to your left.

Both of those people are cowards.

Remember they are looking at you too and indeed see your own cowardice.

Your life is a menagerie of filth decorated with memorabilia of your shortcomings, wrongdoings

and carelessness.

This will not go away. One day you will face it. One day we will hear your story. So say with me, the story must be told. The story must be told. The story is ready.

It's fertile and waits the willing seed of our reader's voice.

But before we do so, I've selected a passage from Skippy Greg who had no legs.

He was almost beatified, you know, as a saint, until we looked closer, uh-huh, at his life,

and upon inspection, discovered, he was a real greasy shit.

Alas, we read his song and hold it true.

Like cicadas, the children in our town were birthed once every 17 years, out of the dirt. We couldn't predict the exact date, but it'd be January or February when the ground was dead and frozen.

Little by little you'd hear their screams as they dug through the frost, crying for moms,

hollering for her dads, and of course, it was first come first served good moms would scoop up the good boys good dads would scoop up the good girls they were eager to beat the hungry dogs cause, hmm, we didn't feed dogs.

When I was growing up, babies were a delicacy to them.

Some sick fucks would watch the dogs eat and let the infants flail, taking bets, wagering clothes like the soldiers who killed the

Christ.

Whole process took about four days, and believe me, only a few kids made it scratching at

that earth.

The rest, well, they'd be in the mud.

Decomposing, fingernails pop it off from digging at the ice.

...