Trudging through the days, the fighting,skimming dark. The world worn heavy, things not freed up. The day went smooth, Farhad was calm. Got shouted out (several times), a apocryphal firm up and adjust. But still the roads slide away. In the afternoon, got zoomed in the high towers, the aberration of heat, spewed over by the great things on tall buildings, the flat screens and hard beasts, that boom and beat, and beat. It was all flouro yellow, but then there was a tree. The failing iron oxide, light and life colours, that soft -float gently towards the dead. The great earth, and her wide girth. Sixty years of old fingers, hovering over me. The home beat - wotsits, and salted caramel. To bath boil,in gently speculating death.The rip tides. The rides, and gentry. Stretched and stressed again. My sink holds, of the upper chanels. Sink holds that mean that at last I can again speak. MB
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