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We come to you with bright shiny faces, and wounds still fresh from the womb, grabbing at anything cool. We pretend to be naked and drink from the fountain of delusion. The fountain of truth is too cold to swallow. Those castle gates of benevolence have been opened, and with hedonistic fervor we crash into the streets, in search of instantaneous wine and blind absolution. We dine on theoretic chaos, and pay with inherited coin. We caress the blade of uncertainty with our tongues. We adore our futile reflection in mirrors, scoffing at inevitability. We bathe in drive-thru lust. We crave the warmth of a cold pillow. We will always be hungry. We will always want a better place to play.