Art. What a paltry way to call that thing we feel; in the beginning, we all had the gift, but it was shed every second, like skin cells, we were losing the gift of creation every second. We left for the cities, we began to make beautiful statues, we used stone, marble, bronze, we let the sunlight kiss them and create new shapes in the shadows. But we kept shedding particles, less human, more clumsy, more cruel. Some realized it. They tried to stop the constant flow; they were called artists, madmen, hermits.

It sounds so sad and hopeless.

We can get after the pelicans first and change the world. They could fly you or explode the island

I saw a gunshop, no ID needed. I could use one after my experience this morning in the metro.