welcome to the story.

Always clinging to a peculiar understanding of these people, I naturally sat intrigued in the fullest sense of the word. Are they clones? Were they birthed out of a DNA strand that encourages falsity and fosters misery. Deep in a stale laboratory of a college university sat warped embryos at some point in time between 35 and 64 years ago. In the time between the inoculation of these strands and this present moment, these original cells have multiplied into masses of waste. Incandescent darkness. Vacuums without . . . hollow within. Sucking every vapor ounce of air from the environments of their hazed existence. Numbing their senses and validating their life. Oh the validity of being a royal ass. I know why they wake up in the morning. At least according to their logical reasoning. A yellowhammer lands on the window sill. The poor bird�s feet would have been cut on the cracked beige paint of the window frame had it not been for the callous material making up its legs. Marrow? Leathered skin? Or bone? I�m not sure. The sun cracks the horizontal plane of dirt and grass. Which is just so happening to begin its return to its full shade of spring green. Morning hues always have a of awakening inspiration. Which is a romantic way of saying, �Buy into the propaganda.� Sell everything you have and invest your day in the pursuit of nothing. Nothingness that wreaks of the vilest of scents. Smelling of arrogance, lies, and best and worst of all, complacency. Rising up every morning with the definition of their logic ringing crisp. Venturing out. Deadheads of a new kind who exist as zombies. Lulled to the old tune of new life. Walking . . . . walking . . . . walking. Circles of steps. Lines of no end with words. But the clever sayings give them strength. �You never know how to be a servant until you are treated like one.� As if on cue, the quip reminds everyone that they should laugh and feel good. Feel good inside of course. �Be more concerned with the divine presence than with the human absence.� �When the horse is dead, dismount.� Like that is an actual practice of the clones. They have their dead horses strapped over the back of another dead horse and are pulling it along by their own brute strength. Strength derived from nothing more than sheer numbers. Masses of clones who combine their money and perceived power for the long march ahead. The March of the Dragging Dead Horses. 8 x 10 glossy publicity photos. Framed articles. They stand . . . chest out, business card, door hangers, and sales pitch, all packed tightly in their pocket. The March of the Used Car Salesman. Pass the peppermints back through the class. No one wants one, but they always take one. Thank you Mr. Flat-Billed Braves Hat Man. Thank you very much. Cue another wave of laughter. Cue another wave.