by Tomorrow's Man
October 30, 2003
There's that edge to everything, as if the squirrels themselves were made of sharp tin, there's no soft and fuzzy 'round right now, it's time for the veil to fall again like Salomé's whip across my back, in everything's eyes resides a rising tide cold and salted with fallacy, time to costume up, time to be not what we are not, but indeed be what we've always hoped we could be.