they threw a war and nobody came

I have a headache the size of a minor planet... also, and this amply demonstrates my special status in god's universe, a head cold in the middle of the hottest week of the year. Be that as it may, we shall, in the proud tradition of your-friendly-neighbourhood-female-martyr, persevere.
"We need a self-help program, a do it yourself philosophy, a do it right now philosophy, an it's already too late philosophy." - malcolm X

its already too late in 1965. where does that leave us, forty years on, still without a clue, or even a line to call our own? wearing 'che' tee shirts and listening to dylan music from way back when, really the wrong side of the tracks, picking our revolution for the evening from the charred remains of a million young beliefs, hoping the vigour and sweat and actual sheer belief will maybe, just maybe, rub off , or even just lend a reflective glow that would nicely complement our thoughtful attire for the evening. yeah man, the revolution has arrived. the revolution is dead. the revolution is now a funeral party, also, ironically, called a wake. join the danse macabre, enter the mausoleum, close your eyes to the ecstatic noise and count slowly backwards from ten as the swirling glittering party you constucted around yourself decomposes and disintegrates into the temporal nothingness that is its rightful state. wake up to the bittersweet smell of weed overlaid with the smell of the dust raised by a thousand rotting carcasses who, but for you and your desperate interfering ways, would be where they're supposed to be, conservatively rotting in peace. Aah c'mon man, let us be already. yeah we realize your inherent inability to communicate with your own period or the people inhabiting it around you, and we understand your need to leech off the blood of those already dead and bled, but c'mon, cut us some slack wouldja? we've already laboured through our own intensely felt times, smelt enough 'stench of earnest sweat' to last us a couple of lifetimes, so roll over, and let us play dead! and quit quoting dead guys already. its disgustingly like those ancient roman ladies bathing in the sweat of gladiators, hoping god alone knows what would rub off on them. or somethin like that... these dead guys can get confused, apparently their heads aren't where they used to be. the author would here like to take credit for any self aware irony discovered in this post by the discerning reader, intentional or otherwise.