Things have been a little unusual lately… or so it would seem, had I not been paying attention and meticulously documenting the voices for this past decade. When you leave your heart open for poetry… and this is not to discourage the poet… you discover that not everything is a gentle breeze. There are soft smiles and there are hard words. Too simple a thing to say, the voice of a theorist reminds me. There are multiple topologies of sensation which could be qualified using all possible combinations of adjectives, because the world is complex and so is the experience of it. Thus I am reminded that there are voices. There are many voices. There is a constant conversation and that is what shows itself as the self… the self isn’t one… the self is many… the self is fluid… what if I were to breathe in some silence… what if you let the voices talk themselves out and slowly fade away… silence…
Explosions! Panic! They are dropping bombs! Death machines! Where is the silence? On the other side of the war? Or only in death?… what if I am the only one who survives…
The mountains… go to the mountains…
You can’t escape reality!
neither can you…
say no more… much has been said…
who gets the last word…
Story Of The Footloose 
relatable.
Give it to me the last word. I will save it for another civilization somewhere in space unknown.
Then you get the last word… and no regrets there…