The emptiness that we confess in the dimmest hour of day, in the common town, they make a sound like the low sad moan of prey. The bitter taste, the hidden face of the lost forgotten child, the darkest need, the slowest speed the pattern reconciled. These photographs mean nothing to the poison that they take, before a moments glory the light begins to fade. The outward cost, of all we've lost as we looked the other way, we've paid the price for this cruel device till we have nothing left to pay. the river goes where the current flows the lightning must destroy, events conspire to set a fire with the methods we employ. these dead men walk on water a cold blood runs through their veins, the angry river rises as we step into the rain. These photographs mean nothing to the poison that they take, the angry river rises as we step into the rain.
Living too much by my own little life bus.