It was in those early days when everything seemed technicolor there was that explosion only inward then nothing

I was addressed today in the secret silent language that everyone knows; except for me. It was assumed I’d know exactly

I am awash with tears of mourning for what I thought was dead and go… as though a flood of holy water has broken through the stony dam I contrived to spare this brittle…

Weep for the fallen warriors. Weep for those souls considered collateral damage. Weep for the profiteers. Weep for the deserters.

I met a man who told me that he’s looking for the way he might become more free, less encumbered in his life. Poor me, poor me, poor me;

The storm is brewing. I smell it in the air. I am panicking. I fear this tempest might cost my life.

Look out there, see them, boy ? They want yer juice. They’re dry, them circlin’ desert… All they want's yer juice, boy.

Listen. There it is. The hum of perfect silence at the centre of all that is, and isn’t.

Something whispers, certainly not nothing. A subtle impetus to choose to stir and rise