Camping in the wild
I was but a child...

In these hillside streets where we walked
roam the ghosts of who we once were...

Waves pound at a foot-sized concrete slag...

Deposit voice in
Bank of Communication...

Show me an old man...

Shapeless frames writhe in wrath through darkened...
Overgrown, neglected, haunt of banshee...

Other people’s problems
come like ghosts in the night...

I thank providence
my peccadilloes were done...

Avoid accidents!
Don't whine 'bout shoulda coulda...

The issue is not the return on investment
of the efforts of humans...

Nothing is ever
exactly what you want but...

Trees that dot the landscape
prove that men may die alone...