a day in the timeline of Marcus

/I find myself wondering through the mist of life. like a child into the fray i rush to play.
/To often do i look at my fellow rough housers and perceive the problems in my life as problems in thiers. i wish i could say it wrong to believe this is truth worldwide. I've not traveled far from my mother...land. but now i watch my Brothers and Sisters and, yes (because of my age), the Childern of Sam prance with eager vigor. and conspire with vehement wickedness.
/Prehaps it dates me to say: no Child of Sam seem to save. today, we spend. spend. spend. gone are the expansive stashies that i recall from my Brothers of my youth. take it, use it now. what happens next? no worries, you'll get more.
/we jump about with the attention span of the play ground. running arms flailing with ---- (no) care from game to unfocused game. Scandle to travisty to ever escalating scandle. "walt whitman", as a very wise goat one said, "was not limited to a hundred and 140 characters!"
/...I recall with a jovial memory, the child (quite problibly of Sam). a sun-browned boy with skin a smooth as Skippy(tm) proclaim during a game of tag: "how 'bout if there's no base" (or maybe he said 'safe'). it's a thought that stuck with me. I never saw him again, that Son of Sam, child of my Brother. but the perplexity on his playmates faces said: 'what (as all immigrant childern ask) why would you want to play with not a safe place to run - to retreat to?