https://youtu.be/WzfjHiSpfkw The church is a ribcage in the sand. I am kneeling on the dry, cracked clay. The icons are peeling in the heat of the day. It is not a holy place, it is a waiting room for the end. And I am waiting for the ceiling to bend. The Sun Is A Furnace For The Spirit To Burn In This Desert Church Where The Pages Turn I Am Discarding The Weight Of The Skin To Let The Silence Finally Begin The desert is a mirror. It shows me the ghost of a version of me that didn't break. The mistake is the breath. The mistake is the wake of the soul. The light, the blight, the fight for the sight of the right to be whole. They said the desert was for cleansing. I think it is for erasing. Rebirth isn't rising; it's emptying. If you lose everything, there's finally enough room for the nothing. The Sun Is A Furnace For The Spirit To Burn In This Desert Church Where The Pages Turn I Am Discarding The Weight Of The Skin To Let The Silence Finally Begin The shadows are long and they hold the shape of the truth. The waste of my youth. The taste of the salt in the air. There is no answer here. There is only the heat. And the beat of the earth beneath the floor. The Sun Is A Furnace For The Spirit To Burn In This Desert Church Where The Pages Turn I Am Discarding The Weight Of The Skin To Let The Silence Finally Begin Rebirth. Finally. The desert is quiet.
