Tell me again old man, of the shaving grounds?

God bless the cultural disarray. The badlands between a tanking approval rating and the next election.
In the brutal spaces where no higher power rests its hands on the puppet strings
Of good favor and capitalistic progress.
Where all men’s favor rest on himself, and the ingenuity and the intelligence.
Where luck is the residue of design, where the papers of the universities are scrap
For the ticker tape parade their play at the funeral of parlor room acceptance.

I must scrap all I have know of my paths, the map is to an old world that can no longer be traveled if one seeks to achieve their destinations. The soft cushion of another mans work will no longer climb the ladder for you. It has grown pale and soft, and its voice no falls on deaf and absent ears.

Ignore and deny this ladder, and by your own methods rebuild your own, one in which there is no climb, but by which all others can achieve greatness. Allow them to ascend to the heights you always knew you were at. Let be be the end of seems. Old money sleeps easy if the laurels are kept safe in the vaults of good measure and conventional wisdom.

And the razor may be rusty and my face brittle from the cold but I will shave this tree to the bow that splits the water, I will careen through the murk and feel the wind in my sails, by my own admission I will conquer the seas, I will find a new path and discover new land.