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Thirty Three Billion, Maybe More
Borgia snare engulfed in flames, the Victorian civilians hung to dry just like us today. Gobs of people in all time periods of clothing emerge slowly from the depths of outer space misting orbit. They stay suspended over Earth, like angels & devils with eyes of those who have gone mad wanting to escape their own prison. Only to reveal the burning behind the cerebral cortex. Leaving their infantile to become still toys in a child's room in the likeness of themselves. We want something better but we're afraid of escaping. So we wait for years and when we finally take the chance to connect it is far too late. It has all passed us by and we only imitate who we were when we began to understand and feel love. We can kid ourselves that it is still far away and the bliss of childhood faintly returns but in the end we end up cast away as dead stars whose soul held no meaning. They stay up there only visible to those who know that despite the living realm and the few decades left, fate is always the same when you only love one who doesn't love you.
