Lying on nests in the middle of busy roads licking sandy pebbles caressing the gravel spread across the concrete floor the world involved by an acid atmosphere... There's no rest even on the corners of your lips where there use to be shelter from the wet earthquakes of trains and trucks and buses in the rain all reproducing the same humid roar. And underneath the tar the ancient repercussion of horse shoes and echoes of drunken voices expelled by relieved bodies for they found steady ground after days with shaking trees, trail dust and phantoms of road thieves I find refuge in forward looking in the projections of warm and sunny memories, places where salt caresses the tongue and sand pierces the skin. Where pain triggers laughter and all the space around us stretches corridors to inviting doors.
for the future archaeologists of Silicon Alley