Everyone could feel it… it hijacked the hado of the day and could even be heard behind the soft rustle of the hemp fields. The ketamine hum that years buzzed at slightly sadder and more involved frequency than its usual dissociative indifference. For those who have fallen into past, life as a practice will always remain a mystery… For when you fall into yourself, you become all too content to abide, to fall inline and be defined by our weaknesses… Ten years pass in blink and realize your a ghost… left to wonder about potentials that will never be resolved, left to wander through the ruins of dreams never built or fulfilled… the towering structures of habit loom like leaning and crippled sky scrapers after an earth quake, forever collapsing in halos of silent dilapidation. Even though those two spirits have longs since passed, whatever they had still remains… like a monument that’s only visible if you know what is missing from you own heart. They held fast to something we as mortals could maybe fathom only once on the most perfect day of our entire life. Some of us still take turns peeking through the spy holes of their Ankhs, like a library book which has been discarded for its questionable content… kept and shared between only the most trusted and secretive of friends. Proving to even us; the most synthetic and manufactured beings in the universe that love is real.