Here is where we get to express ourselves through life-screams of pen to paper.

SHEDDING THE SKIN OF INSECURITY

We imagined our lives in this magical place
And here we are living the dream
Just as everything should be

Your voices carried long and far across the lawn
Awakening a fire deep in my heart
A majestic breeze blew away all fears
Healed all wounds

Easily we embraced this change
Dancing and basking in free expression of brilliant goodness
The Rock & Roll Revolution will thrive on
Being forever led by a troop of gallant festives

The Mission Festives!
The Mission Festives!
The Mission Festives!

Let’s all unite and shout
For at last it has arrived
THE SUMMER OF 2000 GREAT!
That’s right
THE SUMMER OF 2000 GREAT!
Say it again now
THE SUMMER OF 2000 GREAT!

- Harmony

The Twin Song

Thinking of my memories of childhood and when I was a boy. Escaping the complicated and trusting in the great Innocence. Looking for the future somewhere deep inside myself and making promises that duty will call from within. The menagerie is immediately broken, and the tapestry is torn. A wicked hangover remains on the mantel and I can't get up:

I remember a silver-haired matron from the hotel, and every now and again she would speak of the Great Depression and how the children had to fetch water from the caves. She told ornate stories of drowned criminals with tattoos on their feet. These people, she said, must have come from a far-off land, for their scalps were many-pierced with jewels, and the men had broad dark shoulders that met their necks with straight confidence. Their hair was wrapped in papyrus of the finest veil, and every one of their expressions appeared to be of denial.

Poor Mary-Lynne looked as if she had seen a ghost one time. And it was some conjecture that she had, for her now-blind eyes turned milky white with repression upon her only unreliablesighting of the ancient men with leather bands and broken spears. How could she know it was the Indian, left for dead in the cave Where her water would break nearly ten years later.

This was the time of the Flood that ravaged the plains and left every farmer weak from living on ergot-infested wheat and field mice.

And now the maestro raises her cane in anguish and asks forgiveness from the Gods that Never Answer Back.
Her heart was smashed upon a slab of stone by the visage of the Indian who never doubted in his own suicide, and who remained half-pressed in that tannic water of the forgotten cave on the night of our birth.

-Anonymous