Most of the grass is green.

I am dead and the dead grass is unseen.

Does that mean that I am unseen also?

I hope so.

Everybody says that every thing happens for a reason.

But everybody leaves within a sole season.

Death is all we have.

Life is what we once thought we had.

Work is what we use to mask what we have.

Everybody is already gone.

Everybody is wrong.

Love it?

Hate it?

Debate it?

Degrade it?

Display it?

But that is all everybody has.

Forced upon us like a puncture.

Simple yet complex.

A social structure.