I've got an invention about a clever pretend friend who sees through your makeup face into your bones. He's not always alone, though he seems to play the bum and squints his eyes at the sun, and makes rounds in the cities he goes. They call him something different down every road. He makes a point to stop and stare at the lifelines, notched out in the timeline; as the circles come back around. He stands alone somewhere in the midst. The cats and tigers are still moaning drunk in the new generation. Isn't your brother on his knees in the dirt over seas? The man secretly abliges to the breast bloomed with alcohol falls; what can you judge of this mess, let's go.