[Private to Self]
Sometimes riddles are not enough and arithmancy fails. Vandalized, they lie at my feet - I don't stamp, the sticky jumble of green and white and red. I'd add a bit of silver and ebony, here and there, sprinkling the void with items, goods, and objects-- objects. The thick smell
Dreams like brittle sand-castles ahead of the storm on crystal vessels. Dressed in her absinthe gossamer, spiders caressed her naked shoulder.
She was beautiful.
[/Private to Self]
Oh how the ink dries--
The blotches here and there like blots of blood. I've heard in Finland they have parks - endless expanses of snow, where herds upon herds of deers run wild and free. There clouds are nasal-red, as the stag-blood vapours away into the air.
Udo died in Finland.