Hear the broken voices go, monotone and sonorous. Hear the shrieks and sirens echo, hysterical and obvious. Hear the wind make mountains cold, blowing towards oblivion. Hear the noise as weaklings scold, violent and cacophonous. There must be some long way out, some rising, shining brightness. There must be some waiting mass, still writhing for your kindness. There could be flowers in thousands, decaying from your shyness. There could be flames burning from some boundlessness and lightness.