It is a time of no life lived. A time of desert wind and ghosts on the horizon. It is a time of no family. No respite. We are all stranded on distant shores. Guilty and under blackened cloud. We are flowers in the dirt. Dry and dying and joyous and absurd in all our colour and weakness. It is a time of closed doors. Broken backs. Smiles across stupid faces and lie upon lie upon Lie.
And we remain under the gun. The hammer. The rain. The weight of love and the whole of the whole of the world. Driving onward like tanks over a thousand skulls. Hill after hill of the dead. Long gone and voiceless. It is a time of chaos. Of no words. Of no typewriters or ribbons or pencils or art. A time of pointless conversation and useless prose. It is a time of gaps in our heads. Of gaps in our lives. Broken backs smiling faces. Lie upon lie.
