About the author

Now living in Florida, I'm getting up from a pitfall. I'm living on Singer Island and working as a volunteer helping out Latin people by giving them English classes.

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Sad creature, machine gun lungs exposing armies' headquarters, arousing sound pollution. Deformed postured, belly about, a forty-year old drunkard. Thin wristed and armed with the ability to walk slowly and speak irreverence.

You have not, but you have fought! Those days of then when those abound you would interrupt the excuse to imitate sounds of asphyxiation.

Silence around my corner of the room. I sense your hurt, not now, but I did then, or at least I claim now.

Recognize your surroundings? These are fools; not even qualified for mediocrity. You have surpassed the mass despite extra neck and adjoining elephants. Once you exit enslavement and leave behind a habitat of knowledge you will be camouflaged in between a moving cell. This evil cell that hides our true hero! A hero of life!

Hypocrite is my might, I will admire from afar, and I will not interact. I have, but it is steady torture, but do not worry, for I am as well a sad creature.