As I gaze out over the small quiet town I call home I see almost complete stillness in this place. The occasional sounds of sirens cut through the near dead silence of the slumbering city; their connotations are much darker than the truth of their purpose, no criminals out preying on the weak, not likely any crime rings being raided, no gangland shootouts to rein in, more than likely a routine speed trap - giving someone a ticket for trying to get home a bit quicker. Nothing much interesting happens here. The permanence of city glow remains even here in a relatively small town, like the dank scent of a fat blunt on a faux fur jacket collar that glow will remain for decades after the last light unceremoniously farts out. My thoughts drift to the possibilities of the future, not just for me in my little world, but for the people of the world. There's gotta be at least a million people on this planet, blows your mind to think about this stuff. And to think next year we're all going to burn up in the global warmening of 2011, the Mayans predicted it after all. All I know is I'm locked and stocked, dawg. Ain't going out like some trick-ass biatch that's of' sho.' As my gaze returns to the horizon of my silent little shithole town I know this place will never burn for its mediocrity and I weep alone for this. Happiness and complacency ooze through my veins at the speed of boredom and so I look out and think "damn it feels good to be a gangsta." 

-Human Garbage out.