nbc-ink

And here I stand, waiting for the lunch time drama that is my life. Counting the seconds until the instrumental torture ends and I am forced to run with this burden of a talent back to a different form of torment that we pretend is better then the one in which we find ourselves. The hunger of the other natives occupying the muddy field is becoming very obvious, and is magnified in my own stomach by the shouts of the other drummers and the few low brass players who are brave enough to mimic us. We all stare at the modern day Hitler, who stands in front of us, each cry weakening her spirits. We are all waiting for her to crumble, to literally b