The night of the fallen rebels has come; the streets which hold us dissipate and beneath is the beauty of our solid feet floating atop the graveyard of a buried city. Are pants are rolled, waiting for the flood. Where we shall live, we do not know, we will be orphaned as one within the hospice of the underground, where we mine for a century’s worth of leftovers from which we construct the towering monument, a testament of our effort rolled into an enormous pillar, the thigh of our giant daytime lady who we worship, waiting for the rain of her meliferous ovaries, to be filled with the joy of her dripping sweaty kisses, our fluttering wings are nothing beneath the sound of her moaning love…