inrumford: with every day passing,we become lessthan the sumof what we once were.pieces go missing,f
inrumford: with every day passing,we become lessthan the sumof what we once were.pieces go missing,falling down holes,as we wonderhow this could occur.it is silence that burnsthis hole in the ground.a hole I’ll fall inand never be found.the hole, it is blackand nothing gets out.not light,not souls,not a whimper or shout.nor the pleadings of menbemoaning their fate,for once you fall in it’s already too late.black holes.one for you,one for me.we tryto defygravity.holes for the oneswho lived in the quiet,who knew of lovebut were fearful to try it.some slowly realizewhat it is all about,it is not the falling init is the crawling out.as many times asI’ve encountered the fall,I can’t seem to getthe hang of thecrawl -- source link