one day we rise, and the roar of a voice bespeaks a past that was once ours, that was once as good as any, that was once haunted by promises of retribution. one day we rise, and there is nothing but the stale present, nurtured by an emptiness in which all the riches sprawl. in which growth is as opaquely dubious as it is full of uncontainable beauty. one day you had risen and there was all but emptiness, impregnated by a life of excessive sediment. what if we rise and death insists on a new beginning?

love is astray. may this death be one of emptiness. these mysteries are yet unharmed. open for an excavation, attuned to the abject, but also enriched by the magnanimous promises of the disguise.