Tuesday, December 7, 2004


We had this thing about prophecies. More dreams than prophecies. More visions than dreams. Yes, visions - we had this thing about visions.

An old raft rocking on the ocean, nothing but the sound of waves lapping in our ears. The smell of salt in our noses – its taste burned on our tongues. The feelings of hunger, thirst, and the too hot sun turning our hides a brilliant pink, then brown. We don’t make it.

Now, a tunnel and the smell of earth and rot. Darkness, and the weighty feeling of inescapability. We scramble around frantically, hoping to find a way out, all the while accusing one another of getting us lost. Fingertips raw and bloody. We don’t make it.

We’re falling, but we don’t know from where. Having reached terminal velocity, we’re plummeting side by side, still arguing. Someone must take the blame. We’re both waiting to hit the ground. Talking, falling, talking, falling. We don’t m

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