8:16 am / 23.11.04
nudes and poems written on the underside of tables
we are smiling figurines in a glass box.
we all wish we were crashing down
roses and a cold in the winter
we are incubating chickens
warming ourselves to the ideas
we all suguest
words and answering machines blinking
we are messages unsent for fear of failure
we are phonenumbers undialed for fear
of a voice, a choice, a person on the other end
if we are breaking and we are warm,
if we're ignoring the alarm
where will we be when this place is burned to the ground?
where will we be in the ashes?
where will we burn in the stars?