Lights ache through the mountains, unusually far and lucid and hiding the shadows beneath them as if to cover the mystic words of an oculist blasted upon them a million years ago. Little scarred are the downy hearts that look upon the solitude; they know they shall find their grace and their pardon, shall they be here long. Those who look down upon here are the snubbed, almost teen-like spirits who have little to see and little to wonder other than their old schoolboy textbooks and their ragged computer screens. Up, up floating onward, they are flopping like vampire souls, drinking Cherry Cola in front of the mirror.
Shall life be a prayer that we utter like a impulsive catechism every night before we go to sleep, we could look it up in an empty mail inbox and find it cornered in the spam folder. Sunsets falling down tearing apart speak loudly to us then, telling us that the mystic law of the universe is an incarnation prepared by the Gothic figures of ghost in fairy tales and blood-suckers in romance. Maybe life would be better if we would drink Cherry Cola every night before we go to sleep instead?