What waits for us on the other side but reason itself cast in iron and dreams. Sad is fear that grasp the heart and makes it set like the widows sun. Dire are we but tools that wait we with baited breath in the laughter of the children of tomorrow. It is but a taste of the wine that sets the moonlight on fire. We are but what is left by the dreams of our Ancestors.

It was many a lover made love by unacquainted love in the mist of a forged morning. They wait with the eyes exposed to walk in the forlorn valley of death. We live the past as we walk in the future as men of ignorance who try to find the flaw of others who have created great art. The painted is never seen nor finished.

Someone now weeps for one lost and to another without knowing holds no thought beyond the silliness of the evenings wake. What is Sunday but a day that has been forgotten as the first day of the week among those who have taken on faith that Saturn will redeem the masses in the dreams of a queen of spiders?

Etiquette is but a song overtaken by the sadness that can be felt in in the universal impurely of lack of sanity. Many will not see, nor hear, nor say, and stab the infant at it’s conception.

What a world is this where horror reigns over reason and fools make speeches that only feed the children spilled blood. No matter how far we advance it will mean little measured up to memory.

Truth is forever massacred and that truth is called innocents. We should raise a headstone in the garden of the deceased and call it sanity. I dream of day when the spiritual are understood without fear or ignorance. My true family we be set not by lname but instead action.