http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K0YI0UUazkU

[Sepia]

I will sing to st. christopher into the morning, my head ablaze with light, shining down upon all my foes and in my hand lies vengeance and in my heart lies love as they all wither underneath me, empire endings enemy. We danced ballet and recited poetry when I was younger, when everything else still had that naive glow. That has passed and those who danced ballet and read poetry out loud were never the people to bother with writing history books. The program that brought us up, that made us became extinct. Like any other tribe an important part of our culture disappeared and they took it. That was the first and our perception of time was based on the destruction and creation of cultures. Civilizations.

Inside our minds and inside our souls we hear the whispers, every cell in our body conspiring against each other, there are agents, double agents, triple agents and when we're really still at night we hear the gunshots, the occasional bombing and we're just waiting for the full-scale war to see the monsters as they truly are, posed for a group photo shoot in front of their true colours. Guns clothed in gold and lands in poverty, the gruesomeness and the brutality of a conflict of interest where everything can be gained and only ones life to be lost. We are numb as we lay in bed and watch the sun rise amidst the buildings, the smells in the air changing notes. We see the beauty of it but we do not feel it, the sun is on our bodies but we can not feel it, we are form.

We go every saturday to see ballet and we write poetry daily, every day we write poetry in languages that are not our own and the sound that goes tick is not timing how little is left until you die but every tock is something disappearing as tick adds something else to the balance. Our ears are changed, we enjoy different things now, it used to be mozart but now it's grasshoppers, that weird sound when you open a bottle of cognac for the first time and embers crackling.

At night we wake up and we hold hands. We have dreamed about the same thing and we can still hear the gushing of blood in our ears.

[the last yatto]

never heard of the dead weather before...