By Conrad Pierce
Strange are the days we live; gender now ambiguous, god imaginary and aliens all around. Such is the end of days, confusion reigns supreme. Truth is now lies and lies now truth, people typing short sentence's- the extent of our new existence. Language twisted as to not be understood, expression only twists and turns. Speak in a verbose tone only if you wish to not to be understood. Simple does it, so the pimple on your forehead can understand. Burn your books of history, only new things are good for the global race. Burn your book of knowledge, it has no place with the green men from space. Leave your heritage behind, move forward only- VHS no longer norm. Blu-ray spectrum, cannot be scratched- protective coating leaves our reality impervious to the facts that existed before. Rocket fuel destroys humans, use it all you wish; park your car in the dump. Space is infinite and vast, all the answers must lie there for what we don't know here. Solution-less theories on the great beyond, what sea creatures lie below; don't ask, don't know. The sky full of signs is where we'll find the green men, they'll bring us to a place ahead- everything else must lay bloody and dead.
