all those words; hopeless promises; take all the purity that your heart conjured, black shapes on white paper, imaginary kisses, given to the air as if to real blood-flushed flesh. And feed it to the fire, to its maker: forged in the fires of the heart, pinch out its ember. But remember: the fire is carried somewhere - but where? In the heart, here. Feel it . That's where. Take the fire my dear, place it in your hearth. And if my own fire needn't kill it, as the self-same gave it birth, if our love shrouds the flame, protects it, is new, different and kind, then let its words flutter, burning page-locked on the bitter wind. If this love is different, if this love is true, then let its words be burnt in death; ours alone, by others never viewed. The human heart is a curious thing - wounds are like tiny palpitations: they strike deep and swift, their shadows lasting weeks, months, even years - the scars weaken the heart, embolden our fears. But experience is like breath - take it in, hold it and let it pass through you; don't fight it: let worry go. With each moment of existence, let your feelings flow. For soon after pain comes beauty, opportunity, healing, revelation: damming the heart, blocking the waters, can only lead to devestation. Tuesday, 10 July 2012 Climbing the stairs of the metal vulture and sitting down, being strapped in, plastic squares descend down in rows,