effervescently pragmatic, team of years united. it must be a cold world,
to anchor us so. the war years are our years, except they differ not at
all from any other boil to be mentioned by the knowing. the days are as
long as they are abandoned, or do you agree in the valley there, dear
Reader or what's left?
home is home, the natural thing. for us now, just another death blizzard
amidst the plume of jetstream invigourated snow. and lifting up from the
perimeter, it really was Yeti long and short sludging across some
makeshift permanent noise of snow on a forcefield slope. we greeted with
distraction, glad to have hampering pushed aside. are we friends to the
end? who can say? we make what we can of the pure windy noise and leave
it at that..
Tundra sips a tin cup, its contents the miracle of tea. tented with
dismay but willing all along is Excellent English. I need not put
stripes and logic to my own ill ease. I missed many signals, and the
script here tells of many more. Shorty knows our days, or says so much.
love is a pretty name for what we could do. Reader wait, stop turning
away. I'm not alone and shouldn't paint that tale, we narrate at the
junctions. specification makes it all sound real, these stories of
banging pots together. the energy of losing possesses a transfixion
beyond belief.
but what, now a quorumed committee, is the practical side of enduring
the divide? can we fill the trench with answers?
rude endeavour of ritual deaths, poised on fine points, blurred with
reason. there's this escutcheon, known for a primal power, looks good on
the wall. topic of story goes surrounds it, guided by many moods and the
need, after all, to generate an inheritance. epic of empire, masked as
traces ready for division. world as extruded orb, or just ore, elected
for the highest limitation of life. well, none of this is for us to
understand, we're cold to the bone and maybe beyond. still, we see each
other, taken our rare breaths together. blood in the sand, blood in the
snow: what's the difference when you ride the storm?
Mallory and that young companion stuck it out, thru shades of death and
determined to be right. right's a way of exit, surely. nestled in some
presidential murdering we can all assay some bit or bitterness. luminous
destruction as a pattern thru rubber jungles and oil fields. the merrie
tune insists its ways and means, elegiac in some quarters, heaving as
dampening needs to be. I see this as an awful trial, when I discuss
bitter roots while toasting the evening sun. here in this bland expanse
of dying urges we have populations to hear. those who froze, those who
couldn't freeze enough. yes, out little company fits that 2nd aegis
well. that's no excuse, just as Paris Hilton can't be blamed for Tom
Cruise's doddering fineness. we can finish our assailing ways another
day, in other deserts. now makes an interlude, strange as that may seem,
with yet more bodies frozen stiff and dumb. we know Shorty's on the
mountain, wishing ways to top it all. it's a Moctezuma sort of trial,
sung anciently. here's where the story gets good, and gets it good.
Reader please: get excited!
- Grey Mare's Blood was Never so Red, Edward Allen Bramhall
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