Discolored from too many hours spent running away from home and then running back again. What a time we had on our shoulders when music belonged to us and clothing was made by recycled hands. Surely we have not lost all of our dignity. But it was here that many fell leaving the rest to fall with loyalty or stay behind to carry a relic that will only be placed in a museum. A rotting balcony carried the weight of two mischievous insomniacs who pranced about oblivious to the crumbing mess that awaited them. Here, in the evening of presence, tense words are thrown to the air as praying hands remain clutched and yellow walls are painted white while we stand outside watching with nowhere left to go.
August 18, 1999