It’s a tiptoe day in the summer, and the wind is beating its best. The music shaking doors on the Hummer, and a positive lull in the west. - A silence that is louder than is silent, and a murmur in revision breaks out, rumours of a mob turned violent, no bravery that all men tout. - I’ve got my hands on the wheel, tight and I’m driving as fast as I can, I’m no man to fight, A thinker, with a plan. - There’s no room to move, no space or well-hid hole, no sly niche or groove, no way to hide a soul. - My hands tire, I’m tripping, down a curvilinear path, sound around me ripping, an explosive aftermath. - The evil that all men do, the good that is their own, what has a man to prove> what man will fight alone. - The mob flew sideways and in, surrounding the trembling masses, before any one could flinch, the firing left carcasses. - The screaming hit a terrible note, so high I mightn’t have heard; a herder to his goat; power and anger interred. - The silence is louder than silent, no murmur or singular sound; an angry mob turned violent, leaves no thing around. - It’s a tiptoe day in the summer, and wind beats no more; the music still plays in the hummer; a memoir of what came before.