While blood stained the gutters, the facists came to power. And like the criminals they were, we were being hunted. They say, a detective can keep making mistakes but a criminal can only make one. How true that is when you’re living on the run.
My baby girl and her bride – they stood up. Their honeymoon: a forever-holiday.
To hold them both is what I work for. A means to an end is undiscovered. Like a junkyard dog with celluloid attitude, I am ravenous.
My wife by my side, porting without passes. All while he speaks his speech and mongers war on the (under) classes. We take solace in the conflict and gore on the streets home. Our brothers fight. His have never had to know the meaning.
Written today, 16th January 2017.