oh yay, it's May. guess it's no surprise how much time flies, but i guess it all depends if one wakes to sleep again. such is the story of many a dull day, where anything comes and goes either way; where trees and roads begin to look the same, and random poems like this one sound ever-so-lame. hell, it's just a small paragraph of rhymes, with a little too many syllables at times. its readers will soon begin to find, there are no indications to its reasons why, it's author chose to write it so, when completely irrelevant crap, this time, will not follow below.
-Nick Wood, the self-contradictor.
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