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I, too, see the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness. We are decomposing too early, our souls dying before our bodies can catch up. We are silently ravenous, a quiet craze in our hearts, not quite the same as your generation, Ginsberg. We do not shriek "Holy! Holy! Holy!" as we burn. We drown soundlessly.

The overeducated, proud products of postmodernism dissolve in a lukewarm soup of ennui, bored balloons filled with hubris rather than helium. Fragile dolls with flaking bones and hair and skin like flowers wilting, weighed down by indomitable wills and insecurities... these plastic girls starve to death and diabetes in the car beside me, fantasizing about food in the passenger seat. Former nymphets gouge symbols into themselves, the bleeding crags physical outlets for the demonic depression, for the memories of beloved older brothers molesting them in the living room, while her mother sits at a hospital bedside beside a fading father.

I see the most remarkable minds crippled by their religion of cleanliness, an all-consuming and greedy need for order, for control; certainty the god of their lives. Cultural expectations stifle other saplings, weeds wrapping around the fledgling faunlet stems and strangling them so slowly. There is the slew of abusive lovers and parents, Little Boys and Fat Men demolishing my peers. Some could fill swimming pools with their vomit, puking to the tune of "I'm a failure; I'm worthless; I'm nothing." Others, irresponsibly hedonistic, toss themselves into that loud ravine, belly flopping into that notorious stream overflowing with vodka and heroin, rum and ecstasy, emerging with mutated morals and faces and futures.

Disillusioned, emotionally stunted cripples rise from the wreckage, tethered to this Earth by cowardly consciences. I sit beside a modern Morningstar, his lungs bleeding as I pen this, and I understand your anger, Howler, your sorrow and your fear. My rage stills me, flooding through my veins and entombing me. My fear robs me of direction, my ennui of ambition. I grieve for my generation, too, Ginsberg; but my howls are silent.

Description
I, too, see the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness. We are decomposing too early, our souls dying before our bodies can catch up. We are silently ravenous, a quiet craze in our hearts, not quite the same as your generation, Ginsberg. We do not shriek "Holy! Holy! Holy!" as we burn. We drown soundlessly.

The overeducated, proud products of postmodernism dissolve in a lukewarm soup of ennui, bored balloons filled with hubris rather than helium. Fragile dolls with flaking bones and hair and skin like flowers wilting, weighed down by indomitable wills and insecurities... these plastic girls starve to death and diabetes in the car beside me, fantasizing about food in the passenger seat. Former nymphets gouge symbols into themselves, the bleeding crags physical outlets for the demonic depression, for the memories of beloved older brothers molesting them in the living room, while her mother sits at a hospital bedside beside a fading father.

I see the most remarkable minds crippled by their religion of cleanliness, an all-consuming and greedy need for order, for control; certainty the god of their lives. Cultural expectations stifle other saplings, weeds wrapping around the fledgling faunlet stems and strangling them so slowly. There is the slew of abusive lovers and parents, Little Boys and Fat Men demolishing my peers. Some could fill swimming pools with their vomit, puking to the tune of "I'm a failure; I'm worthless; I'm nothing." Others, irresponsibly hedonistic, toss themselves into that loud ravine, belly flopping into that notorious stream overflowing with vodka and heroin, rum and ecstasy, emerging with mutated morals and faces and futures.

Disillusioned, emotionally stunted cripples rise from the wreckage, tethered to this Earth by cowardly consciences. I sit beside a modern Morningstar, his lungs bleeding as I pen this, and I understand your anger, Howler, your sorrow and your fear. My rage stills me, flooding through my veins and entombing me. My fear robs me of direction, my ennui of ambition. I grieve for my generation, too, Ginsberg; but my howls are silent.