Music used to be good.

What is worth losing?

What happens to the memories we leave behind for a dream? Are they translucent corpses strung out behind in chains of werelight, tolling and haunting like blackened cathedral bells?

What is the cost of love?

It isn't free. That's a lie singing off the tongues of simpletons and the teeth of fools.

What are they afraid of?

Why do they hide amid stupors of vapors and liquors, arid monologues and flapping jaws, the bleary unfocused eye, the succor of desperate voices in a cray wash of cold brine: your stillborn savior who bleeds amber in the evenings that stay evening long into morning?

Why do I feel skinless and unreal?

Does music stop at our ears, or does it shudder through us into earth and reverberate, barely perceptible, in the far mountains and fields of distant nations?

Why are they frightened of their dreams, of the love that will get them there?

What happened to passion, and what is the punishment for having wasted it?

Do spiders build webs to catch their quarry, or are they striving to construct monuments, and insects just run into the damned things? If a cow trampled my Great Pyramid, I'd have hamburger that night.

Why do I hear the shouts of the dead and the whispers of the living?

Passion is not enough.

Wisdom is a long while in coming, and blood is its price.

From the carcass of love spring the roots of dreams undeferred. Dawn will come, unbidden and unlooked for.

Tomorrow is not a day on the calendar.