The streaking of the red dogs. The wild dogs, the feral dogs. The chanting of the mice. The lift into the heavens. Each one became a part and a parcel of the ship. Then there were arrows pointing at the near origin and the distant origin. Then there were hearts aflutter about among the townsfolk. Then there were children dancing around a maypole. Then there were humans being formed of mud and straw. In the evening it was replaced. In the evening the humors ran black. In the evening the bilious court struck at jesters. In the evening a ray of sunshine suddenly took in one man’s woodpile and set it alight. How could they be in such benighted foolishness? How could they let their children transmit to the dogs? How could they follow the paths to the mountain? Who was short a codfish not a whale? Who was playing with a full deck and all the sevens? The retreat took them by surprise. The retreat stumbled down the hill. The retreat brought them face to face with Leviathan. The retreat took the last they had. But in the end a chasm opened. In the end a spiral staircase led down. In the end the pursuit stopped. In the end only the people dared the stairs. And in the morning a new day dawned. In the morning the sun burned blue. In the morning they had sheep and goats. In the morning the children spoke in tongues. And it was so and it was so and it was ever thus.
I guess even with my ambitions I just cannot stay away from a microphone. I’ll have to take this one down and save it.
My new Patreon page
The Driftwood of Our Lives Washed Up on Some Foreign Shore only $2.99
samples here
sample of current project here

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