On an empty porch, abandon and damp, sits a lonely table...blued and silver, shine one hundred bowels, one hundred pools, one hundred patterns, chilled in the calm of night. Then the sound, a gentle breeze at first... the awe of one hundred voices softly chanting. Though the trail of the moon threads on omnious chorus, one hundred tounges in one hundred throats, prasing their life's buoyancy, softly caressing the night,obscure placididy unknown to us. The moon is their mother, soft in it's radiance, is the earth, is the air. All is solemn, all is domestic.All is real. Do NOT fade away, oh rightious few. Condense, do not comply, and be free! And in BLACKNESS are gone. One hundred shining faces pass mystically by, immersed deeply our foggy shroud. Gone with the mother of the night.- Andy Cline...1988
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