‘I have seen the future and I won’t go,’ says Morrison, staring at the sky as if he saw the words up there somewhere.
And the day explodes, rocketing into a long shamanistic shared journey. Word tumble out as we write furiously, thrown together accidentally by the summer. Putting it all down on paper. Poems meant never to be heard except in the dark side of our lives. Stories of the yet to happen, fantasies that bleed and offer no comfort.
The future has been to the barricades too many times. The future has been up against the wall so many times, that the handwriting on the wall is now on the future. It is on us.
We see our own deaths and the deaths of those around us.
(From: Two Spies in the House of Love by Craig Strete