Drek

I cannot write. There are no words of awe or cynical desperation that will do justice the machinery of the world.

There is a child with aids being born in Africa who, having lungs for some cosmically coincidental reason that will never fully develop will die within an hour of his birth, veering wildly about him at the strange shapes and colours with no words for the circles of the eyes or the grossness of light all around him, unable to differentiate what he is and what the world is, blinking and pulling madly at the air.

I cannot write.