One hundred years of progress, one hundred years backwards. nPeople pushing blindly, pushing over all of us. nForever teen, they want us buried. nWanting our spirits dead, wanting all hope lost, wanting all of our dreams broken, the beat is being made. nWhat is it we're marching towards? nWhy don't we rest our feet? nOr look what lies below the cliff when hope is being bought so that our thoughts can be cued up when our days become busy while our hearts are getting built up?