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“Farther from the sun, a father and son. The soft moon chasing after, the sun running away; a lunacy of circles that separates the darkest of space. Stars hanging like a collage of reflecting mirrors, pieces that once radiated beauty. If by chance, the moon changes to blood and the sky spills its red, the willing time, will tell in time, if when all is too late.” — Anthony Liccione
Farther from the sun, a father and son. The soft moon chasing after, the sun running away; a lunacy of circles that separates the darkest of space. Stars hanging like a collage of reflecting mirrors, pieces that once radiated beauty. If by chance, the moon changes to blood and the sky spills its red, the willing time, will tell in time, if when all is too late.