4 Oct 2010 | Creases of address

Sharp strands of wind skipping the daylight. He stands there…
holding the silver horn. Herds of people converging through the narrow
escape route… announcing the arrival of the ready and quick.

Look behind your shoulder and smile back at them… they are tired and
hurt. Aeroplanes keeps blocking the sky, filling it with moist dust.
Read the creases of these addresses… spinning out your dreams… my
dreams… reaching out to the golden bridge… behind the old wooden

Can we start again… and look at bolts of light smearing through the
sky. We are here and waiting… for them to understand all these
stupid things near you and I.

Reading threads of memories… walking away from our

Stop him before he breaks the horn… This should be simple for you.