Many moon-less nights festering, tucked with the glass and cloth drawn shut. In confinement a vacuum against the all-consuming hollow of modern. Oh how we scramble, "too busy" to catch me a glimpse so we'll leave it to chance on the Underground circuit. Carts of death, on which we're wheeled like lambs to the end of the line. If our spine uncurls and blessings conveyed fall to bitter silence, let these words embellish our story. For fury may burn holes in the gut, but crumpled parchment and black X'ed out pictures at the eyes long transcend the ideologue. That white speckled hue, the hum of neon boards worn but audible. Somewhere between the dim of Old Street and Whitechaple, the sound of lonely echoed in departed steps. I plead forgiveness, if not claw at the thread that knots a stomach tight and loop it like a noose instead. There are no combinations, no literacy codes to re-write history when actions speak in a universal slur. I'll do it over, scratching memories from the surface of old Polaroid photos, finger balanced like the needle on a buckled vinyl poised to screech one last note. So come now, let us meet on shores our lips spoke the promises of; let us not shallow graves where not a single petal bloom in our name, our egos are too big to return to the dirt.