Untitled - August 17, 2001 Desolation draws a mark across the page There is very little left unsaid, every last thought is dragged from the grave, like a reluctant guest at a death bed gathering. Months after things have passed, they are thrown at you, like a bucket of ice to the face. It's like the shameful events that have come and gone - pages fallen from a book like a stain upon the pristine white.