Wee Sprout 26

I'm NOT dead. This should be obvious because my fingers are moving here on the keyboard. The guy who opened this avenue for me to spill my "featurettes" (to say it nicely) got a little rumpled, I think, because my writing far surpasses his. Sure, he thinks a lot, but then he has to transfer those thoughts to guys like me who can put it down on paper (so to speak), while he practices the age-old maxim, if you can't write, do technical writing.

All that being said, and none of it really matters, here I am, Oz Moses, transcribing my thought on this cooling world (sure, physically, things are heating up, but spiritually, things are cooling down, or at least going to mediocre lukewarm), and what does it matter anyway, for the echo of my voice in the wilderness (so to speak), reverberates back on my own ears, and not even I like what I am hearing. Be that as it may.

On the other hand, so to speak, or to play the devil's advocate, so to speak, I speak, I squeak, therefore I blam. What is this quintessence of dust, to sleep perchance to

dream, this fear of death balanced by this worship of death, ah Yorrick, I knew him well, in that far country. The younger brother wanders in the far country, sleeping with pigs, slopping them, separated from his father, weeping for that loss, that connection that never really was, that imagined love affair, that dream within a dream, the conundrum wrapped in an enigma, weeping for the father that loves him, he knows this, he understands this even though he has never really accepted this love, no he has only played make-believe, dress up, Barbies and G.I. Joes, he spoke the speak but it was all a sham, he knew it was a sham, mental slam, but he played, and now, money spent on prostitutes and false friends, he feeds the pigs, with his very body he may end up feeding the pigs, if all is lost, alone on deserted island stalked by imaginary polar bears, bipolar scares, biplanes and bisexuals the younger brother is lost, always lost, never found, only repetitious babble, this rabble, religion dabble, but there is hope, don't count him out, this poor younger brother, this fool, boob and scam artist. Hope.

- Oz Moses