Here in the sanctuary people don't exist. Their memories do stretched from a remote sense of belonging to an overstretched feeling of nothingness. When music plays from a beaten record player, one can hear movements. Movements different from the newly-dead stirring in disbelief as the morning breaks. The plague burns the land and the cancers spreads in the limbs. The doctors are nothing but old-world romantics who've given up arguing and sent the missionaries back to their soil. In a world, the only faith in belief is in the absence of it. There are babies in the river and the sun is covered in blood. The only dust rises in the moonlight when rabid dogs howl and foam on lonely desert nights. What spreads in the mind is no form of conceit but a vague transient of discomfort of what was promised and taken. The land no longer depends on men but mere imaginary boundaries that separates between the good and evil. Even in sadness, a momentary chasm drills into the consciousness. Poets end up taking their eyes because they no longer rely on what they see. A commotion of abuse runs in the streets, silently ensuring that everyone feeds and turns to mud as the rest rise and fall in darkness.
The sanctuary is a grave. Where no morphine can put any to rest. Here people only moan and groan, those who ramble are no real talkers. They are shifty drifters waiting for acceptance and denying boredom. Their potato wine is no posion but a declaration of war.