𝒯𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝑜𝓁' 𝓂𝒶𝓃 𝓇𝒾𝓋𝑒𝓇 𝒸𝓇𝑒𝒶𝓉𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓈𝓉𝑜𝓃𝑒𝓈  𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓉𝒾𝒹𝑒𝓈 𝑜𝒻 𝓈𝒸𝒶𝓉𝓉𝑒𝓇𝑒𝒹 𝓂𝑜𝓁𝒹𝓈𝑒𝒶𝒸𝒽 𝑜𝓃𝑒 𝒶 𝒻𝑜𝓈𝓈𝒾𝓁 𝓇𝑜𝒸𝓀 𝑜𝒻 𝒶𝑔𝑒𝓈  𝑜𝓃𝒸𝑒 𝒹𝓊𝓈𝓉 𝑜𝒻 𝒷𝑜𝓃𝑒𝓈𝑔𝒶𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓇𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓂𝑜𝓈𝓈 𝓉𝒽𝓇𝑜𝓊𝑔𝒽 𝒻𝒾𝓃𝑔𝑒𝓇𝓈  𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽𝑜𝓊𝓉 𝒶 𝓌𝑜𝓇𝒹 𝒶 𝒽𝒶𝓊𝓃𝓉𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓇𝒽𝓎𝓉𝒽𝓂𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉𝑒𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓉𝑜 𝑔𝑜𝑜𝒹 𝓉𝒾𝓂𝑒𝓈 𝓇𝑜𝓁𝓁  𝑜𝓃𝒸𝑒 𝒹𝓊𝓈𝓉 𝑜𝒻 𝒷𝑜𝓃𝑒𝓈

From the poet's ink it begins to rise- not a moon, but a cyclops eye, bleaching the green from the leaf.And then,there are no longer trees.Just a hunched back embryo,waiting for Genesis- leaching the warmth from the stone.Grinding a...

The smell of tar was thicker now, a bitter perfume that was becoming his final memory. Shane DuBois wondered if she would miss him. The dame with the eyes like a two-way mirror and a story that had more...