The Fargo Kantrowitz'z Literary Campsite

All thoughts were my own now, all choices my own. Since spurned by the world for something higher within me, I wondered about that something. I could feel it in me and now, being like a newborn babe myself, the only outward form that I had to personify it with were these mythical baby birds. It felt like the Man was leading me to my own soul. It was a flimsy, utterly silly mental construct on my own part, but it was all I had so whether I actually believed or not didn’t really matter. The idea of the baby birds lived in the soft recesses of my mind. The baby birds gently destroyed the rough edges of the world’s sad truths, which had slyly maneuvered me into nothingness. If I were to deny the Man his quest I would be denying the only gift that God, who I had barely given a thought to over the past few years, had shoved into my hand, so to speak, right when I needed it, right when I was going down. Not only that, I think it gave me something to do. I don’t think I was suicidal while sitting on that log in the desert outside of the park, but I was changing. Hatred was washing around in my head, reforming it into something I’m not sure I would have been able to change. The Man pulled me up out of a nosedive and for this, I realized, I was extremely grateful.