Flights of Angels: Chapter 1 Flights of AngelsThe harshest aspect about logic is that it leaves precious little room for hope. To be perfectly logical, as lofty as that goal may sound, would be to be as devoid of hopeľ empty of emotion as the sterile vacuum of space. Hope, the elusive and fragile song, had started to lose her voice in the moment that the box had been carelessly tossed at the entrance to the Ark.Stuttered, in the ten point seven six seconds it had taken to open the box to reveal the contents. And grown fainter again, as the familiar construct of plas-steel, circuits and metal was exposed to the artificial lights inside the small security room. Undamaged, except for where it had been pulled away
Silent NightA Silent NightThe night broke over the rows of block-like houses. Flashes of darkness touched each carefully landscaped back yard. Each one exactly like the one next to it. Same patterns. Same colors. The colors that showed, like the greens of trimmed trees and meticulously manicured grassy carpets, lost the golden touch of sunlight and became bruised, purple and black with shadow.The houses themselves lost their cheery hues and turned into colorless specters in a silent town. Row after row the darkness touched and changed; each row looking like that last. A fabricated perfection of manmade scenery. Inside each dwelling, people slumbered in perfect harmony. Another icy nightbreak on this forgotten town. And the people slept on.No lights shone from the houses, as Bruce wandered up the streets, no one moved- the porches were empty. Again he wished he had some company. A person, a dog maybe, anything but this silence and aloneness. He cautiously strode up another street. No one was at
After 2005 -- Jazz The music is there from the time I wake up ta the time I stumble off t' recharge. Old music, new music-- good an' bad. It really don't matter t'me anymore. The intoxicating thrill of a beat, th' melody that keeps yer mind occupied. Sometimes the lyrics don't even matter. An' sometimes the words can be as cuttin' as any knife wielded in th' middle o' a melee. I try ta tune 'em out sometimes, but words... They have a way o' hauntin' all th' same. "We're all to blame, we've gone too far, there's no escape... we're hoplessly blissful and blind to all we are.."