Thoughts on the Ironic Age of Post Modernity

All are made of those unexpected qualities of the which history is made of. Little sparks of infinity in their finite kingdom. Toy soldiers marching on in the vague battle against the vague enemy, with the vague hopes of victory.

The dreamy sounds of cannonballs muffle the mundane on the hazy battlefields in the war of existence.

I pass through it like a stranger on the way to church. Conversely, I mash my face to the glass like a kid in a candy shop and I daze in wonder, or conversely I dance like a mystic on the shores of emptiness, a backseat driver headed to that place I didn't catch the name of.

We are all walking, teaching our tongues for the first time how to stand in the gravity of knowledge. We pass our nights pressing a tender ear to the dewy ground,  hearing the rumble of a hunger reaching out across the modern world, as purpose comes back from her soirée with boozy breath and a careless smile.