the windmill spins as if it was in a monotonic dance ,
he lay's on the grass as the heavens pours down upon his under pants .
he wishes it was the holy piss of god purging his depraved soul
"no!!" , he says, "this must be the holy s**t of god reconfirming i'm worthless".
he thinks it quite ironic for a storm of s**t to fall on s**t .
the sky is covered in gray.
its seems almost like his "ditto" today.
such an endless gray ,its carries the stark reminder of his mundane .
he has an epiphany, why did all the sound stop ?
he can't hear the frogs ,the birds , or even drum of his heart!
he only feels the endless drops of s**t upon his grotesque body parts.