“From family to nation, every human group is a society of island universes.”
Aldous Huxley, The Doors of Perception
We are castaways on isolated islands; broken masts were planted on sand remembrance of oaks among the palm trees. There we built our architectural messes only one rule to live; the less we have the more we share. Tents and caravans raised over insufficient humanitarian oasis; death flies over cities of misery as the water washes the memories in pain if we're lucky and pray. Fire burns to ashes the temporary permanence the shelter: the doll the little girl used to dress everyday. The football these youngsters used to play with their neighbours. The spared possesions left: books, amulets, photographs last things to remember what used to be home burned to ashes. No rainshade No medical assitance No food No compasion. If you're a single man you're hopes are disposable you're suffering is negligible you're life is expendable. Another boy has been found as a corpse drowned; he couldn't afford living knowing what expects him. From oasis to oasis from prision to prision from island to island archipelago of growing despair consumes like flames. There's no hope There's no future There's no good. THERE IS FREEDOM THERE IS PLACE THERE IS REWARD. Just wait and work.