Dogs in the Slums Who Become Very Rich

We're floating, hear that song. Even when I'm elevating, ripping away from the mud, memories speak louder than the present, and I get lost and deeper still. I'm sick of my self-rhetorical devices, but how will I reach the source, the knots, swarming in piles, waiting to be solved? I'm desperately growing up, and at the same time, enjoying the slow, painful process. Here I am, at the turn of the dial, at the transitioning point in my life, no, I've always been transitioning, but here, I am very aware. Do I really want to be at peace, or do I live to obtain my continuous thresholds of revelation? If God took the larger picture and put it inside of a frame and then put it in another frame and then another and so on, I might be in that zenith frame in the middle, waving at the universe, another fleck of dust seeking Nirvana. I am the Fox Confessor and the Bird Gehrl and 16, Maybe Less. I've danced with masked men, sang at weddings, and swam with Origin. I am the accumulation of a life experience that is embedded in a singular perspective, and I am not fucking ashamed. I'm living, don't touch me, no, I live I love present particle I am I be I I I.