When I lose the will to win I find the crowd turning away with flabby hands, slabs of flesh which moments ago, were wringing and pounding each other.
Honor is like an animal quartered Now a holiday, audience in circulation.
Silence as the artists exit Behind the crowd, lonely days, mob faced with pain and fantasy. Enthusiasm outlasts contempt. Too many echoes gather mixed with the crowd's murmurs the smell of flesh and fancy designer clothes. The pure sound calls from within, touching perhaps only the soul and not those surrounding fabrics not the flesh trembling in its shame I see peace in peace, feeling it come from the heart's deep glory. Can you turn away from the imagined honor Before the audience walk away.