I stand lone in the middle of a river that never came to be.
Where the blood of the future generations rabidly surge
towards the industrial fire of greed and envy. Marked only by
their forefathers rage and vulgarity. They are trapped in a
state of mind where the fictitious demon of race holds the key
to an individual's freedom. Judged not on the content of their
character in which they lived their lives. But the color of
their skin or what substances they used. This is where the
voices of the fallen and forgotten are gagged and bound.
Tortured until their hearts turn stone cold. But whether one
comes from the riches of his or hers own success, or the
poverty in which they feel they can never escape. Death still
marks the end for them all.