black_night Death of a Rose it's just that when the fever falls upon her lips, it nothing more then a staccato echo as i walk away. in others we reflect our conversations, making black and white pictures the conventions our natures make. in the stares i pursue when watching them pass me these hidden messages, feeling my mouth dry in anger and helplessness. when persistence is lost and mutual trust lost i can only look at the photo's and wonder why. 051102 what's it to you? who go blather from