Lazy days, sleepy haze, take me away. She is a sheltered child--she vomits poetry, browses the internet, and cries six times a day. When she grows up, she's still the same. She'll smoke six packs a day, then rinse and repeat. Yes, she likes to create, but does she really? I beg to differ, she'd just rather worship the artifice of others. It's much easier, takes less effort, kills more time. We always search for so much in our lives, yet we all-too-often do nothing and waste away. The average human heart beats about 2.5 million times, what happens when that's over? What happens when we spend it up? Our heartbeats are numbered, our breathing cuts painfully and sharp--reminders of lazy afternoons and mindless endeavors.