On a path of ash ahead, frail breath in a halogen sky, wire hands clutch the wheel, residue fuel on overdrive. A thrust of steel at the day's wake. Storm, wind, fire. Levelled faith. Without voice or symphony, shutter stole your identity, a bloodbath on parade, snuffed out on every frame. What is, and what can't be real? Alive? Or picture screen? What is, and what can't be real? Rely on terror. Serenity. A bloodbath on parade, snuffed out on every frame. What is, and what can't be real? Alive? Or video screen? Blood red carnival.
