The city streets are lined with truth, and I walk them. Sometimes, they walk through me. Thoughts are like blood sometimes, when I think of the universe and hurt and every thing in between. I collect my thoughts as if they will stain me murder me, and the resurrect me. I've stopped sometimes and felt the world turning, and I think there are hands turning it. I guess I think we turn the world ourselves, often making our hands and fingers dirty, our wrists sore from the work. I feel like the world is a factory. The factory of gods light and we just work here. I clock into the truth - that I'm small in terms of this world, but I'm awake. Days and nights fight each other. The hours and minutes are like bruises and each day passes by, I know that I'm alone. They say that no one likes being alone, and I know that I'm not one of them. Having said that, I think there’s something tough in it. Something stoic and strong and uncensored. Another truth is that I am an animal. A human animal. With feral thoughts, and ragged furry hair that reaches for the sky. I am alone and for now, I wait.