Engulfed in too much New York. It breaths heavily under the din and crush. American Indians are about. Their words hold a stone’s stance in our foundation. If I give them credence, their ghosts will purge this sallow skin of guilt. Wash this perfumed carcass of pomp, clean of lousy ease and perilous welfare. I cannot give up the freedom. It holds me like a greased pup. Savages they are called by hell-bound creators of stoic myths and merciless deities. We are the hungry paparazzi with hairy teeth, halitosis of the memory, grandiose creators of googleplexic reasons to seek fame. But our’s is reserved for God alone — on the shelf to secure a place in Heaven’s grave. A splash of bloody grace will wake us from this holy slumber. A splash to remember the falling eyes — sunken deep in the lower parts of Manhattan.