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Faster and faster, these hours are like wind in my hands.  My questions remain, and I do not doubt that they shall do so for a very long while.  I need a new planet.

              As the years passed by,
              and he watched the world change,
              nothing missed his eye,
              little was more than strange.
              But his own life, that was apart,
              It grew and died in larger realms,
              Each day history practiced its art,
              And it all dropped away with his forest of elms.
              A cruel truth could not hide,
              instead it paraded about,
              telling others how he'd lied,
              to himself and those without.
              And the sweetness of passed dreams,
              was no mere accoutrement to fact,
              framed and placed it seems,
              in a gallery of God he lacked.

I wrote the same before, and tonight I find I must do so again.  The methods of my superiors are horrid.  How can one such as I, an idealistic sort, hope to function for their emotionless satisfaction when they surround me with dullness and discomfort?  I never know what they wish of me, until they come and take it, or tell me how sad it is that what I've spent so much time on is nothing close to an accomplishment, that it is less than trash.  Again I must protest to what may not be there, please, cannot there be a better, less languishing way?  Isn't there anyone who sees the bad construction about us? If not, then how long must I..?