Words are mundane. The endless drone of society's clones, pouring and drifting into our helpless ears. Help me help you help us escape from the black and white and gray, the every day, the morning commute, the plastic coffee cups. The radio blaring and scaring my kids, my follicles, my brain cells. The news is dark the world is ending, we're all dying but the money we're spending is growing and throwing the dust to the ashes, the ground to the graves, who can we save? The answer is murky, clearly lurking in the dusk of the twilight sky the jet planes flying by with people like ants sitting within them, taking their roasted peanuts and coca-colas.