The linkage of the soul to the elements to the wind and forever gone. The night stars seem cynical some times. The toilet flushes oddly, and voices reverberate in heads made of clay, ink, and tiredness.

God is a strawman argument. Our discussions are as pointless as daisies in the field, as poignant as the death of salamanders. My mind is as coagulated as the milk in a thousand year old churn.

Why not give me your heart, why not give me your soil. The sunset is heartbreaking heart-braking hearthshaking...I do I do...love you