24/1/14 00:27AM
A telegraph to the chamber of the wicked.
If only.
If only there were a way to convict them. Their desolate patterns. Collectively. A way to keep their glaring eyes at bay. Their structured void. So convincing. Scientific, even. Their theories proven. Time, and listless time, again. These beasts without form. Impossible to nail down. Shadow cancers. These empty cars crashes. Steel and rubber. Careening and crucified. Their desolate patterns. Shadow snowflakes. No one else can see them. Nor you, theirs. They are governed by chaos. Egalitarian schisms. They can pillage and fuck and cower. And leave us none the wiser.
Just lay low and await their next transmission. We can't win the battle. Nor the war. But we can allow the lamb its day with the lion.
Yours in attempted valor, and candid dignity.
M
