Withered grass weeds bend with the wind and I sit there, absorbed by the soft roar of traffic, on my oversized hiking-pack just off on the side, under an overpass; my soil thumbed cardboard sign out and waiting for the next kickdown or the arrival of oblivion. My beard has reached the Moses state and the stillness which possesses me, while I idle amidst the pulse of traffic, is what the ascetics must have felt, begging with wooden rice bowls in the Buddha palm fields of India. This is what the fates have reduced me to, but this verrucose path that I've traveled has taught me to fucking endure the elements patiently waiting for my needs to come to me. What makes my day, really? It's seeing the face of a yuppie agape at the sight of me with a seven hundred dollar laptop bought with his highway donations. I smile as their face contorts further as they realize that I'm drinking the same overpriced mocha-latte that they do. Fuck this land, Indian graveyards, and the skeletal scavenging of capitalism. Fuck you who looks down on me-- when Rome falls, you'll be fucked while I'll finally be set free.