 I am an alien, a stranger in a strange land. My skin blisters in the sun. The air rejects my lungs. Everything about me screams, and I'm not from here. And yet, here I am, a stranger in a strange land. Such is life, rich in material things, but so poor in culture. I yearn for connection. I yearn to connect to the land, but I'm born of the ghost people. I'm born of the ghost people. I'm born of the ghost people. My culture is sitcoms, and Amazon, and the Brady Bunch, and the birthday song. My culture is Coke is it, and Lord hear our prayers, and Millie Vanilly, and the twisted thoughts of stunted billionaires. I can name more stars in the marvelled universe than I know in the sky. There are more Pokemon I can tell apart than plants I can identify. I yearn to say here, try this, while proffering you a cup. My pops used to make this for me. They'll fix you right up. I yearn to say this is how we do things here, or this is what the weather means, or this bark is good for toothache, or just lie with me and listen to the land. Just lie with me and listen to the land. Just lie with me. My culture is full of lies. My culture is made of lies. My culture is lies cooked up by addicts ex and suits made by slaves. My culture was strategized. My culture was bastardized. My culture was militarized in the parlor rooms with monarchs, popes, and liars. My culture was spun and analyzed by lobby groups, and think tanks, lawyers protecting their clients, and middlemen chaining up the things that shine and scavenger men. Looking for scavenger means to predate on vulnerable people. My culture is a vulture. My culture is a vulture. I yearn to say this is how we do things here, or this is what the weather means, or this bark is good for toothache, or just lie with me and listen to the land. Just lie with me and listen to the land. Just lie with me. Just lie with me. They lied to me, but you can just lie with me and be free and well.