a quiet revolution is traced along the palm of a calloused hand; no faint words will be written in the sand, not a whisper will follow us; not on the back of a breeze overhead, not on the hard ground through which our veins will one day spread. They tell us time is a matter we should have 'dressed a while ago,
in winter clothes, they say - we let time freeze outside our door and ignore the cold ourselves. what do the faceless Theys know about us and our own pretty ways?
s
