I. its lily tide washes this strand of sorrows, lulled to quiet by solitude the spray whispers secrets at my window, as shades of mind wrestle together in the drapes, for common property, spread carelessly for all like a feast for gulls watch them pick the bones clean, as Time's white skull breaks in hollow grin but my thoughts alone are mine II. like a starved child, ashen and ragged and sore, I sense the wandering pangs of the ravenous night as it slinks, slavering, amongst the dying embers...

This room cannot be. Flapping like a great dark bird, the fanblades spin the old, dusty tale of uselessness, and their very shadows protest, groaning as they turn, knowing the space they fill does not exist. I sit alone at a cracked table, mourning the heat and the candied culture of this one-shot town. Beneath the dim window, I indulge an uncertain dream of rain. The canned music unrolls in this anti-cafe, over the trudge of the waitress and a tepid coffee-splash, over the tap of bluebottles...

There is time for stories and thoughts, for nightly conversations, stretching achingly toward the unasked questions that hover between us, fueling the visions of our souls; and there will be time to let words slip by like prayerbeads of the faithful, strung along our laughs and whispers, our silences and sighs, as we feel without fear, without thought of tomorrow, and without worry beyond the next breath we will travel the rails, and discover where parallel loves converge, just beyond the hor...