In the latter days, the sundry fly squabble biscuit-dry rabble that is the torment of man, his own striving against himself and his fellow, woes come and laments, and other things, dead witnesses seen before the world. Prophecy and prophesy(I had a theology grad tell me these were two different things.).
We will be laid out, browning in the sun, like some bacon, fats alive and roiling against the flesh. So again, the flesh strives against itself, the heart to ground the works, and the brain to be perturbed into inaction through constant anxiety and bemoanings.
The long trip to a bygone tomorrow, the horizon blinding us from so far ahead, yet we make we make speed, rushing headlong into whatever is it that fate bestows. Meanwhile some part of us certain, and another uncertain, with differing opinions at war in our headspace, but the truth being that it comes regardless of what we make it to be.
Looks like they just wasted two perfectly-good white boys.
But still, nothing much in the scheme of things to write home about, or even walk up the road to the scene and take a vigorous spit in the wind. Time and chance happens to them all. The race is not to the swift.
And all that subsequent bullshit, having it all out with only the paperwork left to be finished.
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