A trial run 
   (1998-03/02/1999)


The soft calling we understand. It feeds us with its slow pleasure. The slow
blurred picture it presents is warped and distorted. Broken at the edges, but
so soft I can almost touch it. Why do we endure that pleasure? Why can I not
escape the white cloud slowly dampening the picture? Blurred and distorted 
to such an extreme I can no longer make out the faces staring at me. Their
empty faces, hidden behind the cardboard I hold. Slowly fading away until it
no longer matters what I see. Seeing only for myself. 
  Nothing has depth any longer. Black no longer exists to contrast the roles
we play. It just disappears slowly until all actions are pointless, never 
cutting the sheets. Sheets that just continue to hide what may have been 
turmoil. It no longer matters. That turmoil has been suffocated out of 
existence and nobody even wants to morn for it. They never wanted it anyway. 
Sheets are all that they care for.