There are no heroes here, in the dark place, upon the black crust. Walk you say. Walk where you cannot walk. Strive for the slope and hope to get above it all. Fly to a safe clean vantage point, float upward, but you are stone, and there is no escape, no home, no warm bed and you have chosen this and there is nothing to be done but turn inward and make the best of a fucked up situation: be alone, be alive. Deep into your body you grasp for cynical humor and bastardized love. You stand upon the absurdity of how the world rips apart and causes great pain. All of this you feel as if terror is an old acquaintance and you have dressed it in a kind of light that glows and shows you the way and so you begin to walk along the dark line, upon the dense ground, through the silent vacuum that moves with old clothes and hopping birds. You bat away the outstretched hands, the broken teeth, the flies…yes, you stumble through the darkness as if you are special. You have to think this way because it is your shield and protection. Nothing can kill you since you are different and even if you fall, you will rise again and in the end you will smile. You can see yourself right now, smiling in the face of everything that is wrong. You are beyond this life, even here at the end, and then you realize your shield is ignorance and a lack of humanity and for that you are thankful.