the place is alive, it wants to live

but evil things are taking place

there are traces of the sanctuary whose survival makes me weep.

but the air is redolent with death, the mud and squalor of death.

my old man.

in my life, and out of my life.

upon this swamp i build my house. the house of the lord obomba.

the things that mysteriously elude destruction, from before the destruction, become more poignant, lighted in sweet relief.

trying