so the days have fallen, hard upon the spike and in the garden, all that bloomed withers and returns from whence it once came. ashes to dust, to the mote in a gods eye, as time plays it's fiddle, a foreboding accompaniment to a man on fire, a strange little lust for life as twilight descends upon the sunset of reason, i sip my cocktail and watch embers soar upon ideological thermals that once burned so bright, now burn away to reveal the darkness. i smoke my joint, i sip my tea, i can't tell the difference between time and memory.