A fol­ded mor­ning slips in under the door. The head­lines erupt. Accidents of lines. Dark alpha­bets of hor­ror. Blasting prints. You can even hear screams in bet­ween lines or bear the edi­ted gush of rio­tous words. The becomes a news­pa­per page with mishaps, cor­rup­ting voice, bold cari­ca­tures of dis­tin­gui­shed men, vio­lence and defeat.

Dates pile up in kilos and under the tip you’re your
nose the world at strife
moves on and on.

Twentieth cen­tu­ry of ins­ti­tu­tions and per­ver­ted moti­va­tions. Masquerades of metro­po­lis lea­ding an aim­less march. A voi­ce­less cry. You fold your times only to take a breath and move about with an absurd deter­mi­ned air in an uncer­tain age.