World Beyblade Organization by Fighting Spirits Inc.

A bored homeless man stands on top of a manhole cover the same manhole cover surrounded by the concrete making up the ground of the cul-de-sac circling him.

Reciting the following paradox:

"Anything that happens first, happens because it was likely planned that way"

Planned are the ants desperately crawling and climbing upon the grains of which comprise the cement, the same cement making up the foundation of the ground surrounding the bored homeless man standing on the manhole cover. The same manhole cover that ages in rust like iron always does.

Planned are the semi-translucent properties of each and every grain comprising the cement foundation. The same foundation made from the semi-translucent-grained cement which makes up the floor in the center of the cul-de-sac, the same cul-de-sac surrounding the one man standing out in the middle all alone without anything to do or people to know. The same man who stands numb on top of the rusted manhole cover.

The same manhole cover, iron and softened by the rust from the oxygen we live in. The same Oxygen the desperate ants are sacrificing to climb up the grainy cement curbs.

Planned is the angle of which the sun's rays are positioned, the rays are the 180-degree beams of heat lighting the grass and toiling ants. The grass stands tall with a glazing dew atop their sharp canopies. The sun caresses the grass, the same sun which beams down on the cement, the same cement with an implied translucence within their grain. The same grain that makes up the same concrete bedding on the SAME GROUND which surrounds the bored man. The exact person at the prime of poverty stares bored yet oblivious in the distance. An unforgiving haze surrounds his head- no less his brain.

His mind circles around what is normal, and what is planned. Whatever comes first happens for whoever intended the transpiration.

Intentionally, the ants curl their bodies to the twitch of their antennas, the same antennas made to communicate within the colony. The same colony which desperately climbs the steep curb made of the subtle grains. The same grains which make up the cement, the cement used for foundation. The same foundation being circled by the grassy cul-de-sac, circling the manhole cover. The same manhole cover an impoverished man stands atop of, which is beaten down with heat likewise the cement. The same heat made by the sun in diagonal rays across the grass. The dew on top of the grass. The boredom and catatonia of a homeless man dressed in raggedy gray cloth.

Planned are the bricks and their harmonious pattern. The pattern determined by the architects construction. The same construction that has developed the cul-de-sac which surrounds the bored housebroken individual decked in gray rags. If the man ever lived here, he would've left everything. Manhole cover, ants, heatwaves, radiation- radiation.

Planned. The radiation which beams down crudely atop the roofs and everything else. Everything else being ants, children now coming out to play. The shudders in every window, window of the houses around. Houses surrounding the streets made of a static environment of semi-translucent concrete made gold by the suns rays, rays which complement the dew on the grass, their canopies glistening in the prime of heat. The grass ants desire, their respective colonies abundant in effort to survive.

Planned are the garbage bags rotting on the curb while maggots propagate inside the very middle of their smooth plastic enclosures. The same garbage bag which is sloughing to the side as those always would. On top of the grass and curb connected to the circular pattern of houses. The homes circling the circular circularity of the very 360 Degree Cul-De-Sac welcoming a bored oblivious bum.

Planned are the ambiguous winds coming from the east, barely from any other direction. Directions which only one is stared distantly into, blowing hair of anyone at east outside world. If East meant anything, they would've left everything behind.

Planned are the power lines moving according to how the wind blows, the same wind gathering from the East and destroying the pedestrians neatly combed hairs. The same hair which was used to describe these local natives- that've left everything otherwise. Something the homeless man contemplated if he ever had a life here. Nobody taxes the loitering folks at all.

Planned are the squirrels staring within their catatonic stillness halfway up the trunk of a tree. The same tree complimented by a mixture of light and shade, subtle with simplicity. A couple of relatively young pigeons sit atop the canopy twitching their heads and singling the repetitive chirps. The same chirps that compliment the morning.

Planned are the termites undetectable rage which lasts one second, then poof! They're all gone! The same rage that brews within the Eastern breeze of the outside world. Outside where the young folk engage in their daily shenanigans. The shenanigans of course come first thing... Remember kids, whatever happens first...

Planned is the metallic taste of the air only detectable by blind people and animals. Contributed by the sun and organic/inorganic elements. Elements being metal, or just noble gasses. Either way these are the same conjunction of materials that have been used to kill the termites that had planned their attack shortly before being killed at flash-point. If we could be killed at such a record, the entire state would've been abandoned at will.

Planned are the Robin eggs sitting in the nest atop the branches and twigs of the tree just east of its town. The same eggs that had been sitting there for 36 hours. Thirty-Six being a popular number for some reason. The same thirty-six hours where a night owl flees back to safety (more like "safety") of his woods. Either the East scared him or whatever speculation will seed from an unmarked narrative.