longer raze there is no prior to, and there is no afterward. there is only the cold, forbidding present, swelling in steps too slow to trace, until it bursts and drains. and then there is only the pus of the recent past, which has nothing to tell you, and the sagging skin of an implausible future with no secrets to be mined from its veins. if all i have is now, i'll lick the oil from your face and give it a home where misguided maxims go to die as unwritten embryos. 140502 what's it to you? who go blather from