July 8th, 2002 - 11:16 p.m.

"Excusez-moi, s'il vous plait," mumbles youth.

The excuse of youth. Crass and uncouth in delicate matters and mannerisms. But they could care less. Scold them till the lips turn blue and the eyes water. Berate them till one needs a glass of water to settle the tongue. Nothing will strike youth. Time cannot truly murder it; it merely passes from one unsuspecting host to another. Youth is in itself a false immortal, and does not abide by the piddling cares of those who require structure and circumstance.

For this, youth must be applauded. May they forever hold on to their jaded positions and disdain for antiquated hierarchy.

Youth, I salute you.

I seem to be unable to share in this spirit. But as has been said before: there is no excuse for me.

N.

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