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Mountain ranges, Morning red bathed ridges Stab up at the trembling blue horizon.. Grey slides lazily off rooftops, lands on the incandescant ground and dies. A flock of little men touch down on the surface of the porchlight... Bronze footsoldiers return to march the twilight across our faces.. Skylights ignite and explode Scattering shards of april around the room. No one even lives here. We're too busy crashing our cars every morning into same house... Paving the same roads unwilling to walk them... And even when we extend ourselves, its only to be included in a moment that stands still. And so often we don't struggle to improve conditions, We struggle for the right to say "we improve conditions".. And so often we form communities only to use them as exclusionary devices and we forget that somewhere man is beside himself with grief... And somewhere people are calling for teachers, but no one's answering. Somwhere a man stands, walks across the room, and breaks his nose on the door.. And somewhere these people are keeping records, writing a book. For now we can call it "The Book About the Basic Flaw or "The Book About the Letter "A" or "Any Title That a Book About a Man That No One Cares About Might Have"... And as we turn the pages we call out the sounds of a vanishing alphabet, Standing here, waiting.

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