The people in the foreground are all fake. Extinguishing the hearts of men with their didactic paranoia. Easily seen from the rooftops they single file march upon the bodies of foreign elementals. This would be a dream if I were asleep. It would be a nightmare if I reasoned it so. They turn corners in abstract arrangements. An orchestra plays their steps to the beat of a timpani drum. A dove flies in the mouth of a child bewildered into believing a God rests in the root of his spine. A female: a male, hazened to be born of nothing in a voided sun. Heretical placement of signposts rest shoulder to shoulder with the giant mistakes the male made in previous forms, notwithstanding his prior allegiance to a general disdain to universal misinformation. A radiant glowing forms around the female in haze of plasticine molding. Guiding her allegorical repetitions to a sense of self that only exists in the hearts of fallen angels. An infant crying awakens the senses to the realization that nothing is ever what it may seem to be. The people in the foreground look to sky for answers to lives that will never be lived. The male and female kiss; realizing if that’s all they have then life was worth the hardships, knowing no matter how long it takes the answers will come to them in dreams foretold by an existence not seen nor heard but felt through the belief that something better rests at the end. Finding peace within themselves. Enough to realize that the lives they have are the lives that have been told through the generations. The male and female look into each other finding a future of unpromised iniquities. They take themselves hand in hand, disappearing in a fog to embark on a foretold future unbeknownst to them.