b_minor the night star the air burns frigid tonight. and those dead gods still cry their frozen tears. the cops have gone home, the traffic resumed, the treachery driven underground to wait. and the music is still playing in my mind, through my soul, and into the words i type. blindly. driven underground to wait. i don't want to leave. to risk, but to risk will give me the freedom to return. and to turn the "yes" into a "no" would be a comforting twist, a poisoning notion that in its foreign forms feeds my soul, feeds my self. as if selves or souls exist. what a notion, created from our simple minds to make the world, to make our "selves", make some sort of sense. and yet, the curse remains. the logos as kategoria, and the dancing in the night. the dancing in the night, among the frozen tears of those long dead gods, seeping through the heavens and on to my cheeks. you, my love, your face is clean of mourning. and of night. 061201 what's it to you? who go blather from