people are a peculiar sort

here we swim. removing the teeth of the great shark only to return to the palm of the giant. yellow tape designating a graveyard. we follow the beaver, competing for death's affection. surrounded by reality we bow our hearts to our wooden gods that we keep on strings. we're nothing but occupied ants with a deadline. we're nothing but camoflauge skin stretched over pointed ribs. we continue to settle in this land. we are bound so tightly by the clocks we cherish. if there are no bandanas, then we are all bandits. to put it simply, reno forgot about her gold rush.