First of Shadows, First of Shots
I’d rub my arm and think, being first hurts.
I’d rub my arm and think, being first hurts.
He was also a man whose lasting legacy would be defined in a single moment.
On a day something like October 9th, 66 million(ish) years ago, a blanket of soot clouded every sky, spilled over every horizon.
No doubt a historical trigonometrist could measure the percentage of Weathertop that fell below the horizon each hour, though that study has yet to be published.
This isn’t a sparkly post.
It seems something has shorted in its circuitry.
In a time when anticipatory grief and suffering are the ways of the world, it may seem naive to believe that Mayberry is more reality than dream.
You could drink from whatever random thing you had and it was fine.
I felt like I could drive literally anywhere in the world. And I loved that feeling. And I hated that I loved it.
You stood as still as you could in the yard, pretending to be a bird feeder in the hope that somebody might land on you.