Drifting passed us, a glass armada. Take position or you’ll have to stay. Dearly departed, no, don’t you start it, by unforseen strings we are way laid .

The Heir and heiress. Their truce spent careless, holding up red hands as they retreat away.

Through the stellar rot we rolled and veered while between crooked teeth the hungry void leered. All I kept hearing from all the fleshy gears… These possessive stares… Was how “Everybody will get theirs”…  We are only here for a single, short night… But everybody will get theirs… Doubt would say we’re running out of time… and I’ll agree… So where is mine?  

By the dust and despairing rubble. We’ve feasted, grown fat and drunkenly stumbled. We’re coming clean, and no, don’t you breathe yet.  Amidst all this dishevelled pretence, take these trinkets and hide them from yourself. At whatever great length it may take, we eventually learn what is at stake through a single, barren choice. To stay with the ones that love to hear your voice. Or scour the earth for the ones you have longed to hear.

Dreariness and fear; the distant twins birthed by our own living distress, the returning heir and the wayward heiress.

People keep asking me to give them things I don’t even own yet. I can’t imagine it being of more value than anything worthless. The ‘precious guild’ that your heart desires, is nothing more than enigma and illusion. Loneliness which drives your own shadow to conspire. Something for which I refuse to atone. But by all means, dig your heals, raise your voice and cast another stone.