Some words i spake.

Every morning I walk through a canyon to catch my bus and like rock pigeons millions of slaves crawl onto their ledge.
All these people heading to their assigned cells, wilting flowers in place. The effort of climbing down from my level in the hive and cutting through the world I ceased to touch so long since. I've a flask of coffee for the road ahead, but here I sit; mug in one hand and head in the other: oh the badness filling my waking hours. Music rings out the banality of it all and is perpetual in its stalking. My ears are never free of the fever and my eyes never rest on calmness. Oh a pretty face. It's another face in the meaningless crowd. It flows forever indented but vanishing vanquished out of sight and beyond redemption. To write I must. This I must not forget. All my venom is passing out, down and easily trodden, but I must keep conveying the horror, the horror.

Then a song I recall from half a world away and am I subtly appeased. Are these few tracks the tracks on my face, the lines I can't erase and the scars running deeper than epidermis?