Going up the Country

we're going where the water taste like wine

There are millions of buildings with tired,tiny lights and roads that lead into country sides where grandmothers are cooking pies and sweet delights for their inner city grandchildren and grandfathers are chopping wood and chickens for these children and their parents are there locked in a wooden box with nothing but memories and past accidents and inbetween all these buildings and roads and grandmothers and fathers and parents in a box and spoiled city rats there is this.

There is a flat ground with no hills or trees .There is only solitude on a gravel road and there is you and i who we’ve created our own likeness in the trails of decrepit trucks that fill themselves with hopeless dreams and under attended fruit. Even the conjoining shapes that were left behind couldn’t save us.