in the errant eye of the lovelorn. the scar tissue was an abomination.
the triangle of fatalities that occured that morning, there were
only the witnesses. The three stood awkwardly, one regretting, one
in honest disgrace, the last contained impressions of youth which
withstood the rain of that early hour. They found themselves an elixer
to distract themselves from the petty errands and responsibilities of waking.
Why blame the media then? Why blame the photographers? Why not not say,"coach,
I was a coward, a nomad, a single soul."