A voice. Screaming in a crowd as silence: to be heard, to mean something in an inhuman world. And there are bodies but no faces. There are eyes but no pupils. Were we here to learn, after all? How can there be no point when everything feels so poignant? Skin rages fire but nobody can feel. Too scared to ask for more and too scared to be poor. Falling to knees for answers leaving bruises and a remote sense of guilt. The answers only make more holes. Trapped by fear and ignorance with the self reflection to see it. Why simple love never seems to be enough. Why desire is always a ghost. Haunted – or, hunted. Feet falling faster to the rhythm of the war drums. What are we running from – towards? IT is never a time to rest. IT is never a time to catch a breath; on the edge of exhale, skin blue, trembling. IT collects, in shadows. The shadows as a construct. The construct as a replacement. The replacement as a means for justification. And death justifies itself – you need to die with somebody before you can live.