Strange.

First the letter put to paper and chalk board. Crayons of color and expression imprisoned by parallel tracks with a passing lane.

Ink of pen, graphite of pencil.

Taking orders of time.

Given commands of expectations.

And for what? To be a canary in a poisoned memory?

With verbal utterances it becomes unbalanced boarding on incoherent.

Pictures only allude to what people choose.

Written. Words. Wow. Why again?

(because it keeps the results at bay)

i want to stop writing.

i have too.

and if i do very bad things will happen.

Take for example, this very moment, in a room filled with people, an ‘agent’ of people is going to die, and why? Why is there torture and hate? So that others may live?

So many vibrations it becomes necessary to drive a stake through the heart of what is barren of blood,

for good reason

for good reason

for good reasons

Why God, do the stars have to die?