The plaster rolled off the nameless bones. It hides waiting patiently and silently for when we will be unable to run from it. The scars scar and it’s the life that keeps moving us and we keep moving us and the world moves with us. The coffee motors, the money motors, and the motor oil affect our stimulation. It will speed up, it will ditch us in the dust for the birds to prey on, and our children will tell us how incapable we are. As of yet I refuse to submit that I am incapable, I will stand like the proletarian statues of my youth (those without the visible cracks) and keep going until my collapse. Only then will you tell me which way to roll my wheelchair.