Life is short,           though I keep this from my children.



Life is short,          and I've shortened mine
                              in a thousand delicious, ill-advised ways,
                              a thousand deliciously ill-advised ways



                              I'll keep from my children. The world is at least
                              fifty percent terrible, and that's a conservative
                              estimate, though I keep this from my children.



                              For every bird there is a stone thrown at a bird.



                              For every loved child, a child broken, bagged,
                              sunk in a lake.


Life is short           and the world is at least half terrible, and for every kind
                              stranger, there is one who would break you,
                              though I keep this from my children.


                              I am trying to sell them the world. Any decent realtor,
                              walking you through a real shithole, chirps on
                              about good bones: This place could be beautiful,
                              right? You could make this place beautiful.