Beat down and street burned - high wind warnings all around. Another rough coffee day with only flashes and cuts from the night before. Lost bleeding weak men roam these streets - Atlantic City thugs who are deep and empty. Impostor wealth in sport coats stumbling the restaurants of Market Street looking for french cakes and high end shots. Naked men sleeping under thin blankets by trashcans shivering over steam vents on Juniper as high heeled women howl with clutched hand bags on their way to the bar. Stuffed collar christ men handing the new testament to cross walk crowds by city hall. The dead eyed millions struck by fierce wind to bend spines - a dead moon to crush us leaving a ruined speechless empire behind.

This is a beginning for this thing. A birth.