On a highway, middle of the road, pitch white dry summer day across the country, a child dies, and no one cares.

It all just kind of ends to the pressure; every slow nightmare we decay through dries up. I grieve for the voice of the old factory as the children dance in the shadow of disinterested evil. This world will eventually heal, it will be through blood

The venerable offspring of life, let this throne be yours.

I HOPE THAT THE CITY LOVES YOU AS WE HAVE LOVED IT