(part I)
losing power, hour after minute of small hopes let loose by uncontrol and sanity. He tried to end it all again, the fool. Rain penetrates his shell to convince him of kings and dreams and a sense of identity, insanity. It’s hard, it hurts him but still he arms his soul with soul, herbs and fire. Calling his eyes an alcohol desire the wind demolishes the last sense of identity ever owned by the last son of the mountain plains. Homage paid. Debts of honor, he minds the business of flowers and things. Just things, not much that is considered particularly special for diving off rooftops and greeting a hole for the love of the desert. Lose the velocity in your veins for a color of entertainment value. Call him a god, call him trash from the third story. He loves to sing but hates his voice so he doesn’t like himself.