What the spider saw

[Sepia]

We were jealous of you because you were so full of life while we sat silently waithing for our own death rattle. Later in life we would descend to hell and ascend to the sacred city, we would see all the reflections in the net and gaze upon the abyss, the eternity of un-never, the eternal vague magic of truth would be revealed to us, its significance, its meaning, its purpose and we would find it as

I walked out of the seven with a pack of smokes and a bag of munch and it had gotten colder, spring was nearly here and through the din of drunken children and tourists, the men of the bridge offering their diluted goods, the surest way for those who wish to wake up at the er or not at all and as I thought this I heard in a broken norwegian dialect I love you and I've never heard anyone mean it so much, the desperation and longing equally genuine. There was no love in her voice and there was little hope, there was the hard cold guilty conscience hitting you coming down on something bad one of the boys on the bridge said would rock your world

There are no dreams anymore, there are no roses, dropped by protestors, crushed by swat, picked up by people in employ of the salvation army, there are no dreams but there is work to be done. Perhaps that is the time ending, the abscence of the youthful yearning for something more, always more and different and new and change and hope and fear and love and god and murder and all and everything of potency, the smell of rose, the multifoliate life

There is work and work is always good when it extends your being but I guess it has to when the shifts are 12, it becomes part reason of life of meaning of this, brave new world that I gaze upon with fresh eyes again, reborn once more amidst the din, making status and filling out lists, making plans for work

In lifes long corridor where we the dying men walk