Lorca! Neruda! Whitman & Elliot! Rimbaud! Have you no Tears left for us wasting on the road to Galicia, in the Cafes of Santiago, the foil’d European Revolutionaire, between coffee spoons, in the suburbs of Paris? O! You sufferers, hold fast - we, too, shall go when the world decrees it is incapable of love! Who are we, that we know the failures of Mediocrity above landings, on balconies; what sins we must bear! And the cries of the mob, lonely and lost, befuddled in their slavery: a toil born of hatred passed on as salvation… They will tear at our hearts for as long as we breath love. O! Hold on, you lovers! The night comes too quickly and goes before we’ve kissed. The bed will disintegrate as we lay upon it, the sun will rise to our shame. You and I, Lovers, you and I will be home soon.
screaming at low volumes
