In the event that I do not deliver… I’ll be yours… You’ll be mine. Chained to the wheel and locked at the helm of this scalpel edged pledge drive. Contained and lovelorn, the end will come and we’ll be weathered. Extravagant, knotted and strung by tether. Beneath the moon we will bend. All of us water worn.

There’s venom crawling from the jaws of salvation. All of us gathered in the palm of violent sensation. Ladies and gentleman… Boys and girls… I present to you vibrant living… The black hand of antiquity… A blind man or the presence of faith? What’s the point if we’re all leaving anyway. This obsession is to be treasured. A prize, the likes of which straight lines may not measure. Through this twisting weave of fate your constitution will be tested. Hold hope and call for change. Context will always change to suit those who are “blessed”.

We are the children of folly and love. Tangled between the slither of life and those who it has infected.

This is the tragedy of silhouettes wearing scarlet sashes. You can confess here or be handed down to the masses. These parasites will struggle tooth and nail to continue their dramatic occupation. So Carry on. Most of us will never stand in the light. So carry on. Won’t you forge ahead? Cherish the panic. Relish this lust. This carnal record of your existence. Caution is in bed offering security and the intimates are shifting in the dust. Heat stricken, they rise and fall. We Slump and roll. Through the streets, rabid dogs and crooked vultures. All. Of. Us.