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Aaaahhh!!! Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhh!!!!!!

The market is falling!  The market is falling!

Again.

He’s jittery,

of course, so much so he will, again, kill...

he can’t quite keep his invisible hand still.

Does it shake cuz he’s a pill-poppin fiend?

Or cuz, self-indulgent, his pants he has creamed?

He’s spooked, the kook, by his own reflection:

he gets depressed by the thought of depression.

So, I’ll make a confession:

I never liked him anyways,

not his materialist craze, not the greed-glazed gaze,

not to mention his brazen pillaging, setting all ablaze.

So let him shrink, downturn, and crash,

maybe we can heal affluenza’s rash:

so set on makin mad cash

we don’t see global fever

set to kill all in a fiery flash.

I don't often think much of my work, but it must think the world of me, since it keeps grabbing me and swinging me around like a ragdoll.

Feels little like these are "my" projects.... it's more like being possessed by them. They're spirits, energies that were lying around in the void of pre-existence until I stumbled spellbound into their embrace. They then piggybacked on my sweat and blood into the world.

Stories are the most troublesome.  Everyone knows they have a life of their own, and that one should do justice to the unique nature of that life.  Sometimes they are generous enough, despite all their egocentricity, to return the favor and do justice to the unique nature of our lives, to lend meaning to our madness.