Projection

Be a brat for me. 

According to the statue of imitations, 

you can fuel half the people all the timetable. 

Ounces of breath mist across the scape 

scraped from paint peels. The peal of chimes, 

latticed to the foreground of haste 

distasteful to the masses in the mess hall. 

Where oat-niks brim with glee consuming grains 

warmed by me make their way to menus 

post-plaudit toward chalk talk.