(Sometimes I have to give the big dramatic cheeseball within me a chance to breathe, before I smother him back into unconsciousness).
The Dawn. The Dusk. The Dead. Re-awakened. Re-imagined.
Who are we?
We are the Dead.
The Dead. The Dead who still Live.
The living dead.
Dead inside the soul. The soul that lives within us. I eat my soul. I don’t like the taste.
Crows fly over the field. They are black. Black Crows over the field, in the sun. They are still black.
Happy gadflies eat the tongues of unrealistic cows. The image is disturbing. A young girl weeps in the rain, her umbrella destroyed by the weight of the world. She is a victim of life.
The blank page beckons.
(Now everyone say goodbye to the cheeseball, and thank him for his time. If you don’t make eye contact with him, he will probably be quiet and leave us all alone, until next time).