"We have absolutely no idea where anything will lead, but the lead is there nonetheless. We are in some
direction other than to the rear. Sometimes to the rear, just not at this time. Sideways. Lateral. Off a bit to
the left probably. What is over there? Difficulty. Much difficulty... however we are going in that odd
direction anyway. The path is foggy just as the air outside the cocoon hanging from the balcony. The fog sat
and attempted to chill us but the alcohol took control and we warmed from the inside. Now we are cooled by
thought. Frozen at times. Cooled through worry, dissatisfaction, fear, longing, need, and a lack of knowledge.
We continue to feel the cold and continue to move through it. Among it. Inside it. The cool thought has
engulfed us to the point of becoming blinded. Fuck. Snow.
'For once I wish to see
Vacant no longer. We are occupied to the core. The frozen, twisted core. Will this end and will we be better for
it happening? Perhaps. We can hope. We are hoping. Mired and hopeful. Mired YET hopeful. We have been here before
and the result was a harsh left turn. This time we cannot turn, nor can we attempt to turn away. The path dictates
and we are hopelessly helpless yet again. The situation is near that of 03, nearer to that of 10, and we now have
the path into and eventually through 15. And it began early this time. The differences are stark and glowing and
if the outcome this time proves worth the hells... Well it would. It could. It should. Should? Fuck no, scratch
that last. Earlier we were carried by --------- but that has not graced the loudspeakers nor the headphones for more
than a week now. --------- will put us down strikingly quick and that is not a place we should be occupying right now.
We need up. Way the fuck up. --- ----- is attempting to lift us at this moment. Perhaps we will stay up there for
a short while, perhaps longer. There is no knowing for certain until the situation pushes us in the same direction.
That direction is damned elusive right now but still we remain at its mercy.
And now the fish. Dead fish. Dead tilapia on the salty shore. In the rocks. In the sand. In our eyes. In our
minds. Everywhere. Thousands of them staring up at us as if to ask why. We cannot answer. We tried and tried and
they just stared. We caused them to see us and ask, and they understand that we cannot help. We can do nothing
other than photograph. We need to go back there and soon. The Nikon is gone forever, but we can do something...
Anything to attempt to help them to understand. They just lie there staring at us. Some up, some to the side, and
many down. Staring. We love them and loved them. We spoke to them. They acknowledged us. We spoke again. They loved
us. They are still there and we must go and acknowledge them yet again. Soon. We simply cannot stay away from
their tragic beauty, their pungent scent, their open mouths, their razor teeth, and their wish to know. We just
fucking love them to no end. So fucking far detached and so very far away but the necessity will kill us with nary
a thought. And then we must join them on the shore. We must. They amaze us in their solemn positioning and vast
numbers. We do not amaze them. They are dead. But they speak across hundreds of miles and we hear. We hear them
with our hearts and we cry over and fucking over until the pillows have drowned.
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