It was the beginning and I was coming to an end. I was praying in the street light heat. I was kneeling on the bustop graffiti. When will peace come? When will violence end? I was a farm boy who picked rocks out of the dirt before the plows passed through. I was a farm boy, bored and true. After the beginning I gave up on prayer and started painting graffiti. I was restless and needing meat. A band of gypsies trampled me with mean screams. It was a mean scene. Zombie imitators approached me with exaggerated affects. I just stood there like a tree until they passed. Then I was alone again under the streetlight heat, kneeling, and praying for peace.