the crack that divides Iceland between Europe and the American continent. It was indeed paradise. Just me and my kids and hot kisses of the last warm sun before the darkness of winter. Ripe wild berries and deep cracks into the earth. Not a sound but that small waterfall hissing. The symbol of our pride. Oxararfoss. We bathed in the clear mist and walked into a crack. Dwelled in the womb, soft moss under our feet. Filled our hands with crystal clear water and it tasted of the remains of the glaciers, melting so fast. Soon there will be non. Soon there will only be land of fire. No ice. No ice.
And that is not enough. Not enough. The waters are rising. The dry silth. Suffocating smooth sand. Green lush waterbanks, dry. Rapture my ass. We need to stop. But we are a snowball. We are melting. And the sun and the hole and the rays. Not enough. We are melting. We are burning. Enough! Not enough. We take shelter in paperhouses and the hummer and the hummer black as tar.
Should i hope for halt. For people to wake up. Is it not too late!! Is it possible to turn around and around. The massive shockwave when the kiss of death will suck the life out of millions. Is it the darkages creeping into the modern paperhouses. Paper moon, paper hearts. Do we care to care to care. Howl at the moon and eat it with greed. Give birth to mutant thoughts. We don't care to care. We consumer therefor we are.