New York snow. A labyrinth of streets with no name. Prise open the door of a crashed car as the steam from nearby sewers engulfs us. We implode as a train on the subway derails to the ringing of the Liberty Bell. Plastic chairs that fall into the gutter as buildings collapse beneath a blanket of clouds ten-thousand miles thick. Childbirth on the steps of a library. Words that give us power. Welsh vigilantes that set us free from a lifetime of humdrum realities. A bridge takes us decade to decade. It allows us to become shadows. At the end of the block, a magician creeps unseen. Shapes created by his hands. Silhouettes so easy when drunk on exhaust fumes and ink. Ain’t no stopping a killer. Sands drift in from the sea. They choke us while we search the wreckage for signs of life. Open the trunk and find the meaning of brutality. Old maps point to old ruins. Startled by the crossfire of loneliness, cuteness rendered obsolete when faced with secret demons. It’s raining. The world is falling. Bodies cease, but the soul becomes something more when confronted with the great beyond. Suffer in silence. Preach sin until it dribbles from the corner of your mouth. Capture landscapes from the brink of oblivion and give them a reason to sleep at night. Little is known of our movements. Cycles of extinction. The remains of haunted heroes. We dedicate ourselves to unclear motives. We carve symbols into wet sand. They disappear, but the idea remains. Dim the lights. Spread those thighs wide while reciting prose. Haunted aren’t we all. Damaged and fucked up beyond repair. Decipher the twisted wires that prevent us from becoming something more. Suicide stings. It gives nothing but false hope. Ignorance born in a Parisian cafe. The future so cheap with black stockings. The night not yet through when another bottle begs to be opened.