Slick and sour were the words which you spoke as you fell to the bottom of the deep black pit. Nothing but darkness, smooth silver darkness, as you rose & patrolled through fog & mist. In remembrance of old times, old books, & old rhymes, we can't help but define the ancient as divine. The world is nothing more than a singular line; drawn, stretched, & broken into frequencies, forming shape, color, & smell. What is more beautiful than mastery of the elementary? I'll wait for your answer as you roam.
This is my attempt to join, and spuriously contribute to, a writing group. I read a lot. I can reasonably write based on the merit of much of that training.
