Thursday, March 19, 2015


Windswept moors have no laws. You wander alone and search for a bone. You give it a chew but then it chews you. You recoil in horror, and hope for a better tomorr'a. You continue to wander, but end up a lonely despondent desponder. You think this may be terrible grammar, but you take your dictionary out and smash it with a hammer. The crows circle around, and you hear that french horn sound. The light it seems to be fading, you step into the water but there will be no wading.

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