at all times, in all ways,
Are the children of Men”
I crawl on the floor, a wet blanket of affection, cold in the after thought, wrapped tightly around my face. Looking up through the swirl of dark and gray smoke, I catch the glimpse of fiery tongues consuming my reputation. No loss, this consumption of smokey history, what was built before can be built again, with improvements not considered before. The demise of one dream is the birth of another and dwelling on sentimentality isn’t an option. Crawl now my shattered bones of the present, know that shortly you’ll be born again on the carcass of this ashed life.