Rage, fear, ballistic acts of free will.

It is, at one moment, wooing the young girls with tales of Rome and the feeling of lying inside a mild steel cage, driven simply by traction and gasoline. The next it is ramming energetic fists into the face of no one at all. It is unease. It is the passing shadow of a sacred time, with no man to be held accountable to. It respects neither the Father nor the Police.

It contemplates night in the shadows of dim starlight and vows to "change the world" in whatever fashion. It bends curves in unjustly tampered cars; always screaming into another day, and without regard for change. It burns. It occasionally twists motorbikes into lumps and spires of metal in an act of vengeance against nothing in particular. It abuses both drink and drugs, and it sprawls on the hallowed grounds of its musical heroes, enjoying simply the notion of art. It worships the fight and the prowess of those who don't care. It does not wait, it does. It acts. It screams and makes exaggerated hopelessness gestures to the skies above. It is profane. It snarls and bites and plays the dog. It becomes sad and full of rage without reason. And also, it ages.

It begins to grow into an era of both Law and Order, and it is far too big for either. It cannot subside, for the rage will grow stronger. But also it grows without outlet. It cannot purge. It festers, dying slowly, until only a shell of itís brilliance lingers. It is talked about in small towns and revered by those that have not had a taste of it. It is electricity. It is hatred and love, with nothing in between. It is without respect for the detriment of nature, or the perils of chance. It fears only it's own timeline, and becomes all too aware of it's own frail existence, without turning an eye to the existence of its master...or slave.

It is youth, and it is all that we have. And now it fades.