Cynicism thinly wafts through the sometimes chugging, sometimes well-oiled, sometimes indolent workings of the mind with fresh air breezing in through half-open windows and small cracks in the walls of the mind. Stagnant air gently circulates mingled with the fresh air, the cynicism sometimes venting out in words mingled just as quietly with sprouts of premeditated words, realized to have been vented only when the cyncism comes sizzlingly in contact with the ear. The walls of the mind seem to be getting old and more willing to crack further but perhaps need a pressure buildup of fresh nurturing cleansing air passing through it. Air hunger.
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