The shock in the form of a fisher,
Did she have it, Seattle? I don't know.
A list of bark--
See that face--
Made of bone and lace.
Made a face of him,
A contest of thought and word.
He heard from the time.
He crated a box of sour lime.
Miss he thing, music I can't make of the guitar man,
I ring, not softly,
But like ambition, the orbit of greed.
I no longer believe that we can keep silent. We never really do, mind you. In one way or another, we articulate what has happened to us through the kind of people we become.