Victoria Williams: 0309

Every day the same trajectory. An abstract part of you rides as a passenger in the chariot which pulls the sun across the sky, looking down on your helpless body performing its daily rituals; catching this train and that, moving in the same worn circles; the future always an elaborate pantomime of the past, the same characters and villains appearing, each year in more exaggerated dress and painted faces. The endless waiting to be born; waiting to perform the right action which will allow you to be released into the brilliant, blinding, blank unknown. Do I mean the future? Or do I mean death? Or are they perhaps THE SAME THING? Haha, anyway, look at me rambling on! Happy birthday kiddo!