9.22.09

After so many thousands of years wandering the plains and living in huts out under open air, we have returned to the caves.
We build impossibly steep mountains and hole up in them; Stack our spaces one on top the other.
We keep out wind, rain, animals, air and even our old friend fire. Ghosts of Bon hide in flourescents, cheap incandescence; nothing to warm our darkness but the feeble zapping buzz of micro waves.
We dream of blue spark cinders--the dying of a distant flame. Only a long since memory long lost forgot. Whispers of smoke rising.