Saturday, September 20, 2008
We seek answers, in the boombox-ringtone-premeated ocean quiet atop the breakwater, amidst lovedrunk scrawlings. We hope that the answer comes riding down, in the last of the golden chariots. Till we realise, that the sun's setting on the wrong side of the shore. And in the drawing darkness, we hasten to pen our salt-cured enlightenment; only to find the inkblue words tumbling over one another. With a shrug, we dust our hands and walk into the burnt night.
my mi nd is un.ravel.ling/ 10:11 PM