Concrete and crickets. Can you feel that cool summer’s night air?
Call to the heavens young one. Now is the time for giving, and they have given you the blood and the bones, and the power to lament in the hollow catacombs of our collective soul. Speak not, not because it is impolite, but because they are listening – the walls, the clack of heels, and silent photos of young girls with bloodied noses, are all keeping a close ear.
Unreal chambers await you. Unreal in that they have windows made of grass and the hands of the men are made of stone. A bell purrs like a cat and pours its sound like wine over the faces of the faithful and the grass.
Be strong young one.
Take a look at the stars beneath your feet and feel the rumble of steel on your tongue, the crickets twist in the heat. It is good. Is it not?
The birds await. Steam slides from their beaks and into our souls.
And never return.