rolling hills. streets like hardened lava cascading between houses into intersections and into the city where they seem to spawn skyscrapers. Where the grass is fleeting and retreating where it can hide and the trees try growing as far up as they can to escape the grips of the inorganic claws of cold strangulation and meek design. but you cannot parade over the whole landscape and never for long. tufts of courageous life pry their way between the cracks. their roots dig deep into the brittle rock where soil crying out to be tapped waits patiently for sometimes hundreds of years. They pump nutrients intravenously into the green stalks and thier broad leaves above where the sun shines and energizes.
a stone was hurled into the hillside. we carved it with our hands into a dwelling place. the earth took us in and we sank comfortably and securely into her arms. mothernature wrapped her vegetation around our waist and insulated us from the elements. vines like fingers inch up the walls to hold us tight and remind us we’ve been here to long to go anywhere. we commemorated the dwelling place by erecting a steeple and marking the chapel archway with roman numerals from the year of our conception. we ring church bells to syncronize our minds with time. we sleep cooly in our dwelling knowing there is tradition. and we are established.
William Dare 