Conscience is my prison; my silence devoured. I am bound, like an umbilical around the neck of the dead fetus, tied to my wanderings and my pleasures. Remorse is a luxury for the forgotten hero who follows the garbage bins along main street. I cannot linger with angst, in the wrong of life; conscience is … Continue reading Conscience

I look at him. I wonder how he became old so fast. The mountain of life. The struggle and strain. The slow, slow climb. The descent. Fast, faster as you near the end. Where are you now? Are you anywhere at all?