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The only mistakes allowed are life and tripping, and until then we dance among corpses and dogs. Hanging eels only fund more disease. Is it this youth? Somewhat, yes, but it also by nature which the trees lose their leaves and limbs. Save for the evergreen, those bastards. Despite this, the pine needles still crunch beneath our blackened boots and ozone is still out of our reach. The bus breathes, becoming tired and retiring, taking its passengers to the bottom of the hill and only there. The resourceful make its corpse into shelter, but its spirit remains, wrathful. They perish only after surveillance is stopped.