NEW WRITING:

Life - people slid with it, people rolled with it. They formed songs about it - with choirs. They performed smiles about it - with valid reminders. Life - to him, was a big spent balloon - some of the time. The rest of the time - it was a big spent shiny red balloon. He was a martyr to that life, a big time masochistic martyr. Storyline: things looked good, things looked fine, the wheels of life moving swiftly along the highway to someplace else. So he'd stick an iron spike in those big cartwheels of life. Stick it so hard, stick it so forceful it would seize, it would convulse, it would tumble, and it would scatter. Life, he thought - cycle after continual cycle - is really not meant to be good, not meant to be good and even. It needs to be fucked up, fucked up good and for real. He was - after all - he surmised, a big time masochistic martyr, a messianic big time masochist. He needed to be broken, he needed to be scraped, rattled, rolled, and broken.