A Late Night Snack

Girls.

Everywhere they pollute our town smelling like fresh laundry and Donna Karen. Their high pitched squeals speak of "boys" and other random blather as their clip clopping is reminiscent of gilded clidesdale mares.

Pumped prepubescently out of "NOVA," they meander our town with the hunger for "fun" and more alchoholic musk to cloak their various individual vapid personalities, scathed by the fact that they are indeed students bound on kicking their legs in the air like spoiled children for a rod of some king Midas.

Ugh, humans are humans because they dwell in the realm of reality. Those of us who live outside it as watchers are only demi-humans or demi-gods with a pen twice as sharp as a sword. Fixing our eyes on them and attuning our senses to them helps us realize that we are different. What was it like to think like they do? To remember reality? To be tied down to the daft and depressing norm?

I hate them as I feel the torn off wings of my back refusing to open because they're no longer there. I hate them because I can no longer cross the gate of death because I disagree with their creation and existence. As I bring one of these creatures to a darkened street to drain them of their life force till they turn to sand, I look into her very short life and laugh hysterically in the face of God for its impermenance...