Manic Magician The graffiti read: the treaty's dead. It's written in tombs, figures speaking of doom. And now I'm hearing things. I wonder what it really means... The dead spirit turns desperate. As if #life is a #life sentence. Is it granted to adapt then take it for granted? I see tendencies tend to be discrepancies. Gold is labor. But a millionaire is not a laborer. Their money tone grows monotone. Even the sober folk somehow overdose. The compass points, ahead is the descendant. The summit enjoys it's solitude with the heavens. I matter, in fact, my matter's intact. You see the power when these atoms collapse. But the magic retracts and distracts.. The magician wished he didn't exist...
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