Who Are You? The Band Sang. I

These People Picked You Up And Played With You And Then Left You Lying In The Rain

Echo, The Death Of A Sound That Had Nowhere To Go But To Come Back.

History Only Existed In The Human Mind, Subject To Endless Revision. 'each Man Kills The Thing He Loves'-oscar Wilde. You Kill It Before It Kills You, But He Was Wrong. You Killed It By Accident. Thinking You Were Doing Something Else. Shattering, When All You Wanted To Do Was Keep It Safe.

Whenever She Thought She Could Not Feel More Alone, The Universe Peeled Back Another Layer Of Darkness.

They Dream Of Men With Gentle Hands, Eloquent With Tenderness, Fingers That Brushed Along A Cheek, That Outlined Open Lips In The Lovers' Braille. Hands That Sculpted Sweetness From Sullen Flesh, That Traced Breast And Ignited Hips, Opening, Kneading. Flesh Becomes Bread In The Heat Of Those Hands, Braided And Rising.