Come Armageddon, come Armageddon, come sings morrissey. I have to make meaning of this life because this life has not amounted to achievement or memory. Have I broken through routine? Who knows if I can emerge beyond what is handed to me. Beyond the egos search. My ego enters the bowery poetry club and looks for validation or binding. I enter establishments and sliding walls of people face perpendicular or backward. I'm going to sit at another rectangular counter as at a 45 degree angle men and women in conversation turn in curlicues, at the wooden table responsible to each other and each others feelings unveiled. We make room for others or else walk in continuous sliding doors of people moving somewhere. I imagine that relationships and children and blood bonds are obligation that pushes us to pain and satisfaction. Satisfaction seems to come from obstacles. The pain and the risk threshold of climbing mountains and providing for our demanding children. I am at that point where providing for my basic needs is still an accomplishment.