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I was going to write about how the Grunge music revolution changed me, but found my words pointless.
Music can be everything you need to keep you alive.
Walking up and down the streets of a city, trying to feel that I belong
Spit out and rejected, tossed aside and taken away by the cold wind.

I awake in a gutter, stopping the flow of garbled conversations of the less fortunate. I rise to face another day.
My clothes that once were remnants of flannel shirts, tattered jeans, and army boots
are now replaced by items of comfort in this new decade.
The revolution is dead.

One must move forward, or perish in regret. I feel like a Russian nesting doll, hiding in layers of Milton and Neitzche.

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2 Comments

Wench, bring my ale, what say you?