The cicada are quiet now.
I can’t seem to find my way home. It’s been so long since I’ve been there. Can’t remember if it was back before microwave ovens and vcr’s. Or, was it even way back before there was nothing to fear. But I know I’m not home now. The touch of your hand is cold. And you say to me that it’s because you’re dead inside and I know that it isn’t true. Only dead to me.