Mark's Pages

May 30, 2004:

They're attacking the port. Between the towering horses cylinders arrive from heaven, organic, pulsing with movement. As they're lifted away the soldiers can be seen, metallic, grim, stacked one above the next like faces of a totem pole.

Running figures. Falling figures. Prisoners. They torture us when we're captured. Needles in our legs, tearing the skin, like tattoo guns. Screams.