Go into the world, you'll find out how wrong you are, among people who don't have time to figure out if they like you, or vice versa.
Rain and the river will tell you just how strong you are, for all your fucking vanities. You fucking pussy. You fucking liar.
Tell me what theory dictates is right and wrong when your shit gets washed to the gulf.
Tell me how "human nature" runs counter to what people do, spontaneously, because they happened by, because they could, for nothing other than Archway cookies and a Gatorade.
Tell me about Malthus, the Law of Identity, God's Wrath, the inevitability of things.
Tell God to bring It, we'll still fucking fight It, wasting not a precious breath to tell you how wrong you are. We do that with the work. We've got shit to do before the next squall, wet, filthy, hungry, sore, laughing, a kind of beauty you'll never know.
Pick up a shovel, get on the line or shut the fuck up. Because nobody's listening anyway.