so much has changed, since the dam broke. the villages built to extract the rage have been razed. their inhabitants, mostly dead, cling to vestigial memories. [ Not all of them worked in the mines. ] The baker has taken over, unable to imagine a new place, screaming into my ear, all my heresies against love in an effort to produce the rage the mines have lived off of for so long; his voice is easier to ignore, but still distracting. letting go of the integration - dis-integration... without the rage, what will keep the love safe?
screaming at low volumes
