I was born a century too late, a continent removed;
Back then and there, there was a feeling like all the tragic suffering of carrying your head in the air was an aesthetic revelation; there was a fashion that said aloofness was sexy and promiscuity poetic;
I was not made for these times.
This is an ode to every who has ever been told to 'just live in the moment'
And to everyone who has ever wanted to punch someone in the face for telling them that
The only reason we pursue philosophy is because something fundamental, a precursor to words, is not working, and we have no alternative other than to ask ourselves, 'why?'
Which came first, the chicken or my fist in your jaw?
Rye humor, whiskeyman, rye humor.
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