January 2014

Desert, Broken dreams. Frontiers of symbolic darkness. This is Land's end (not the clothing company) just sun, scorching summer's skin and in winter a cold that permeates bone. There's poverty everywhere- hunger, filth and rot... And it's January already (last night a hard frost fell) I live with my own stink, write, fingers numb and white- I'm not a Dr. Zhivago (there are no balalaikas strumming) Here, there aren't any depictions nor romantic drama. Only the real- this daily dying this damned desperation.