I'm going home the old way with a light hand on the reins making the long approach.
Sometimes tradition is a way of keeping going.
Here on the drawing board fingers and noses leak from the air brush maggots lie under if i should die before if i should die in the back room stacked up in smooth boxes like soapflakes or tunafish wait the undreamt of.
God serves the choosy. They know what to want.
Nature is a catchment of sorrows.
The time on either side of now stands fast.