Apocalypse has been rendered almost meaningless. Which is odd when its shadow grows long and dark with this final sunset of our story.
Our story–history, this powerful thing between us.
These horsemen comfort me, despite all tangible logic: because they are real. My fear is not irrational….
He takes the form of “a Lamb that was slain”…breaks the seal…unleashes these visions of woe.
Could I look them in the face? Brace myself for the blows? No.
Make them fierce to let us know that our nightmares and histories are the same.
Men once torched Prague and watched it burn with their shiny jackboots mirroring dark destruction. Who will save us from ourselves? A day’s wage for this handful of flowers. Flowers we leave on these graves. These graves etched in stone. Our own.