This dismal epistle (grounds enough for my dismissal) wherein I say, "Things would be great if great things could stay that way" Maybe I'm just depressed 'cause no one's gonna let me starve to d**h, or 'cause I'm doing well, so much so that I must frustrate myself. I'm into making hungry scenes, losing teeth through loose chattering, and shivering in my dripping dreams, the kind they make on big machines. Yeah, I grew up here, but learned English from the TV, too. In those young, slow years what else was I supposed to do? It's like all your fun-lovers are only regional numbers: divided parts to a sum and vici, vidi where they're coming from.