| 11.1.00 |
October leapt like leaves from trees. The branches, now shed of golden promise, reach everyward. Pray spring never comes. Lying in beds of fiction, sunk like a child under rich stories—and for the first time in a long time its only the stories here in this warm spot. Body is free from what could be. Finally—but for how long? Pray morning never comes. |
future past index |