Removed from the comfort zone,

Erased by the latitude time presents

Hair the smell of a no. 2 pencil,

Fingers bemoaning the persistent factors of irrelevance in the land of inverted opportunity,

Saddled with listless influences and exhausted contemplation

Breaking in a new pairs of thoughts,

Looking for the perfect size

Probing the outer recesses of civilization for aspects less ambiguous,

Attempting once more for a warm glow

Is this the true reality being scribed,

Or simply the exaggerated misadventures of self-preservation?