Twenty five minutes and I'm gone

(killing time -- I missed it)

Limits get results, a hurdle before me artificially coaxes creativity, squeezing blood from oblivion, inspiring netizens to dig within. But if I'm remembered for one thing, bronzed on a pin and shouted about at parties for a game where winning didn't matter, was anti-matter, where I was thick of skin, that's when I dissolve grudges and begin:

There are lights above the muck, and I get shivers in my spine, even from the firetrucks

A toast then, to the marathon men, I was one of them, I ran, broke all my bones; I spent my very best years raising funds over telephone. What then, did I get? A slap on the back and five percent bonus on my paycheque.

But I'm fine with fruit, cave slaving, my shiny bag of loot. (I have a saxophone in my laptop bag, and there are online forums too for how to play the flute).

What boredom! We are constantly at war. No wonder how we snore. For if all the world agreed, there would be anarchy. Hands in the air? Me! me! Buddha won't let me be, until he humbles me (They penalize who's first in line to extinguish all their greed).

Whither

Broken silence is regretful
When absence is the thing I've lacked
But generalizations, I find too stressful
That's how I earn my 'Man in Black'

I don't thrive on exposition
not so much secrecy as I'm too tired
The only thing I can't remember is
what life was like before the wire.