I have no search to come to me, no instance of definition in trust of wild expression of my thoughts whilst squirming, heavy, swimming to walking in the new mud of flesh come first creation of human emotion, like sun the breeze floating between the mind; the static of every creature, my human thought is your human thought is his human thought, in blood, in poison, in instinct.

Grows the weed that kills across every single plain, in every tousled piece of earth in every inch taken away, can we say we renew and create? Is creation of the same tiring acts and objects to be considered the type of progress that is worthy of death?

No sadness is cast in my eye or regret on my mind but the warmth of human skin is no different than the warmth of animal, and the beauty of you and I no different than that of the growing earth. I take no passion in my discrimination against my own, passion should be reserved for joys.

So I come to this; all of man are weeds, all animals are weeds, all plants are weeds I see no difference. We take and grow as much as we can, we are deceptive in how murderous we are down to our veins, We have no instinct for regard of those who are not ours.

We our only guiltier because we can be guilty; that is what holds us to higher responsibilities.

A knowledge known is not fact or useless but I wish I could go beyond my knowledge and hold to the collective responsibilities.

Please ignore the poor grammar, I had no time to edit.