(no subject)
In sprawling language we've marooned our dead saviours and made each book we read, write our lives in our head.
"This day" she told herself, "will be the open cut covered like an Ohio winter sheen." She made everything into this blanketed desert paradise for a lich to savor. “I will not end up in a mill” her mantra of fate and her defiance of some past that she didn’t understand.
"This day" she told herself, "will be the open cut covered like an Ohio winter sheen." She made everything into this blanketed desert paradise for a lich to savor. “I will not end up in a mill” her mantra of fate and her defiance of some past that she didn’t understand.