The horns of the goddess are stained with blood
And the crawling fog tastes sweet on the tongue;
The hounds are howling.

I was looking back over my shoulder, into the room filled with silent people. They were all trying to hide, but they failed, each in their own way. I was going away, as the fog drifted past my cheek from the open doorway; I invited them to come with me to the birthday celebrations.

“Whose birth are you celebrating? Those you are meeting perhaps?” ( Read more... )

( 2:58 pm, Thursday )