Cracks traverse the dirt stained floor as the light plays on a chair left unattended.
Outside the sun beats down on grass going brown from the dry summer.
A playground swing stirs in the face of a soft wind.
Inside, the people pray.
Pioneers of new art forms - fools are geniuses.
Things are good here. I perhaps overstated my case, but I believe it is a case worth stating. Perhaps I should just get a button or provide a link to an essay.
Here we go again
There beyond the shores of yesterdays dreams
Lies a world that the eyes of men has never seen
Would you mind if instead of talking I just take your hand?