Horizon.

The heat is oppressive enough without the white hot depression which always kicks this time of year. Too hot to even open a window and look out over the sky, blue as the eyes of yesterday's movie stars. So I'm trapped. Stuck in my own fucking analogy and trying to remember the philosophy that always gets me through. Something about - we're all just spinning on an empty rock in a cold lonely universe so smile, fucko, because everyone else is just as dead as you, as lost as you, they just hide it better under all the toys, or they have something more to focus on, like survival amongst the ruins of a piece of fucking land. My land, your land. That war makes me sick. I've got to stop watching the news. I need to focus on the light. To move towards the light which dances every night in my dreams, a tantalising, teasing temptation, so close, but so far away.

How long can you hold a dream? From deep in the night through the day and beyond. For years, for a lifetime, can you hold gentle and protected a single wisp of dream, a single cotton thread of what might be? I can. I can feel the white butterfly skipping in my heart. I can resign myself to the fact, that I am here for different reasons. That there are lessons to be learned that do not involve flights of fiscal fantasia, but rather the continual search within the soul for the door to the next stage. Whereby we might wake every day with a smile, no matter what this fucked up capitalist society decides to throw at us. No matter which way the arrows point, or what the anchor man tells us, the indicators, the seperators, the columns and charts and graphs, the concrete teeth of the sleeping Devil which rise in every city across the world. Death from below, graveyards of our own making, constructed of silver to forever distract us from the sad, sad truth. That we have murdered our earth and our souls to pursue pieces of paper. That we have lost all freedom of movement to pieces of paper. A sad, sorrowful, grubby, greedy, destructive sty full of pigs at the trough. The world is spinning to its doom, and we all deserve to go to Hell with it.

So smile then fucko, just like you said. What's depression, when the whole town is dead. That's almost worth a grin, knowing that one day beneath your feet will be a memory, knowing that in a billion, billion years, this will be dust and you will be inside an honest to God, real life fucking star. Just have to be patient. Play the game until you die. Eat some cheese, drive with the window down, touch that skin, milk that cock, write it all down, which house you want, which drink you'll have. Never, ever, forget to stop and scratch a pooch, those little guys don't understand, and they need some love. Make lists, make love, make one person understand you, and maybe they'll do the same to someone else, and maybe it will flow on, maybe it's a dream, but maybe it will flow on. A river of understanding to drown the world of pain.

The heat is oppressive. I sit in a darkened room. The sky is as blue and unforgiving as the eyes of an angry father. But there is today. And maybe we are all spinning toward our deserved doom, but we are not there yet. So I pick up a pen, and I start to draw. I take up my paint brush and paint. I write a song. I read recipes. I open the door and spy an angel and breathe upon her. I talk to the chickens in the language of the birds and have no idea what I am saying. I take a cold bath and laugh at my own body. I tell myself, if doom is coming, then baby, let's have a little fun. I light the light behind my eyes. I set free the butterfly within my heart. I keep the Hope fires burning.

And I make them burn bright, baby
that you might see them
from over your horizon.