Birds of prey. That's all they are. All we are.

When I first noticed them on the horizon, black spots, moving, I blamed the mescaline. I have seen movement in places beyond this realm.

I drove by, aiming guns nonetheless. I shot one of them. Dead or not, a human is a human. I dug a grave of sorts, ignored the memento. Who will remember these times but me?

As I started the engine, the horizon moved again. With a sigh I loaded my gun.

Whether this haze is mine alone or a world beyond recognition I'll never know.

For now, I'll ride.

Moan is total negative amp worship from Groningen, The Netherlands.

Smoke. Get high. Kill yourself.