his head splits open, and the fox pokes his guilty head out, the crust of blood proving a recent feast. The clown dissolves to powder, and the fox falls down, down, down, and never stops, and for some reason all I can think about is the crust of blood around his mouth as I sit in a daze on the side of the sunny green hill. I hear distant laughter of small children.

I was having one of those days; the kind of day that everything seemed to be working against me. It started straight out of bed; I rolled over, only to find that I had run out of bed and hit the floor...hard. That was rough but what happened next was even worse. The alarm for the appointment that I was scheduled to be at half an hour ago never went off, the kids used all the hot water just before they headed off to school, I am out of coffee, and little did I know that twenty minutes and a Stewarts hot coffee in my lap later I would get pulled over by an officer that seemed to be having a day similar to mine. As soon I as I think that things couldn't possible get any worse; things got worse...

My only purpose for leaving my house was the empty carton of milk in the frige, but I had to walk because my used car fell apart; this adventure had brought back no milk. I walked down the street about three blocks, till I hit the corner. The first "obstacle" that I had to pass on my way to the deli was my brother and his obnoxious friends; this should be fun.

What does it mean to be born in a country torn racially, economically and idealogically, such as the U.S.? So many different paths to divide us, how can any hope to unite such a fragmented, vague and listless people?