Because

I live in a brown-stained tantrum wasteland — same as an kid — but I'm too old for diapers and too proud for adolescent self indulgence.

99.9% of matter is empty space. My mind feels that way sometimes, but then I wonder: Do thoughts spring up from the quantum foam? Are they like everything else, just heat dancing against the cold lonely dark of the fathomless gaps from atom to atom, the daunting chasm between noun and verb?

Are there ripples in the lake of the mind? Is that what dreams are? Or was the lake really just an old dry puddle, marred by the plastic yellow boot of a child still too dull or still to wise to see the depths they so easily plundered, the ground beneath the waves that holds everything else up?

Does the plastic boot remember the joy of ignorance? Or is it also chained to this cheerless, ceaseless automaton, forced to dream and then dissect the dream in an endless truthless cycle of analysis that strips everything worthwhile down to the bare bones of mere mechanisms and then begs, "why? why? why?" as if the answer could be heard by the thinker, after the dreamer's been so thoroughly executed.

Why?

.

Because...

It's manure of the saddest kind.

That which nothing grows in.