April 23rd, 2002. - 10:12 a.m.

A sense of loss, but nothing is gone.

An odd disjointed state of romance.

A woman crying blood on the street, selling flowers to sustain her life. Scarlet drops on the cold concrete floor. Swallows eating new born butterflies. That awful crackling noise. And then, it all does not matter.

Take my hand. I will take you down. Underneath. Watch the dust settle and build. We will be manniquins, you and I, stylishly poised, sealed under glass.

N.

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