Hop into the backseat of adolescence. Rev the engine and arrive at the red light faster than the opposing lanes. Blasting the re-mixed mixes, your sunglasses shine in resilient sunlight. Your backseat is full of beautiful anatomy, flying tuffets of hair abased in the light winds of Springtime. Your raucus rebellion does not cease at sound barriers, stop lights, nor logic.

In fighting the clairvoyance of experience, you are not alone, though externally speaking I wish you were. Messages in whirlwinds, invincibility clings like death does to the Grim Reeper. Predators reap glory with sythes in their back pockets. Secretly. Waiting. To pounce.

Choices, like diamonds, are forever. 

                                                                    (& so is the devastation that are diamond mines)