I am writing to you from a dusty lot where flowers have no hope of flowering. Yet still they try, putting out minute and slender buds of tender tendrils. No hammers could do as much damage as the pervasive dust. Yellow as celandine pollen, but choking in its blanketing pollution. I too am choking like the buds. I am fluent in pain. I would leave this place but have lost the map where X does not mark the spot. It is merely the grave cross of all the flowers. There will be rebuilding on this dusty site, where might is right and the dark side of the moon is more life enhancing than this place.
I am writing to you from a dusty lot, and my own lot is clearly to mend my camera. To send you reflections so that the rebuilding will be creative, not bereft of all humanity. We are humans are we not?
The copyright of this post belongs to Valerie Rule
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