Thoughts that slay thighs beckon now and rusted blades wonder if they will find their glory again, with the faintest touch of cold metallic blood. The beasts that dance to the end of the world cascade down rosy cheeks. It’s not so lonely when solitude is familiar and of all the familiar things, it’s the least painful. Loss relishes us, we nourish it with the finest aspect of ourselves, in it abides our vulnerability. That reaching out is much greater than not, is a story we told ourselves to fuel all desires. At times I wonder if we do it so that we might satisfy our need to believe that really we are alone but also hope that at the same time we are not, that someone out there is there. Paving the path to salvation was never easy and onward we go, to the other side, where the purple grass is greener, as those familiar cuts wait in the wings, the waterfall sings that old tune.