Currently spending lifetimes foraging among ruminants which crowd desolately overdeveloped rural avenues of hometown misery for scraps of dignity and the end of an otherwise terrible screenplay. At the age of four, the monkeys of coor taught me to speak ki-swahili, and I roamed the plains freely conversing with lions and lionesses, the latter seeking my flesh to feed their young. When the darkness came, I did not shrink from it, rather turned to its inner mysteries and smiled... beautiful, ebon warrior. And the light came forth from the day, dreamed a bright reality that banished ghosts from collective memory. Authors stole words from empty or imagined rulers of the sky, and yet vengeance did not come. This goes on for quite some time, then I get back to me, difficult as it might seem. Dreary, isn't it? now imagine writing this inanely for the past five minutes, and you will know what it is to be me... Without irony, I can confirm my love of life.