Evening, autumn. The gray clouds shove and jostle their way up the horizon, hiding bolts of lightning, silent. Only a drop falls. These are days of judgment. That clatter, clatter of heavenly machinery.
The air full with life. Bitches go happily into season. Green leaves stretch to the sun, are battered by rain, and grow. Thunder rolls, but in the distance. It is both coming and going. We may not work tomorow. With luck, we may never work again.
The fog lifts, and I am awake, as far as this ladder goes. And there’s more coming. That clatter of heavenly machinery. Wheels and gears spinning. The wind rising and falling.
The nuclear furnaces of the stars.
Thunder rolling, and waiting for the rain to give us another run. But perhaps this storm, too, will pass. So let the green leaves grow. Let bitches and men live out their seasons. Bring in the mattresses from the outdoor balcony. Let the winter come.
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