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Undemonstrative, solemn YOU: becoming the rancor of the mantelpiece, its loveless dust invading all our feasts of amity. Up the jealousy quotient -- we lack the means to cure you, any priest to divine the ridiculous, the hateful, who will pull your simple, downcast eyes back and over to the road. It forks here, it forks there, and if you will not walk along with us, eyeing the chimneys that rise like sailing ships to the north, then there's nothing left for you to do. We go on ahead, the priests all shuffle off and death lies down beside you, death: your last and faithful dog. posted by Reen |link| 0 comments |