I was trying to write depth, but my ink did not even sink in the shallow pit, my pen no longer holds the paper in pain, nor kisses any line with the red passionate flames. I sit here, down beneath all of the pits, down in the ground covered by gravels and sealed with cement, my shouts rebound, anguish can not be ceased, I can not reflect nor exhume my intellect... for my flesh can not speak its past, his kisses were smothered and forgotten and no longer work the magic like -our- past, my professional attire is redundantly hung for a painful scene that of my unemployed hands...oh I look at these hands, amid the shades, behind the sun, sun burned, nail polished, refined, dull, have died, for it does not fondle with affection to him, nor produces industrial mechanics for them....