.

residue of production

The trees would answer with a creak and a crackle. Fall was near, a rotten apple.

Even if it's true, I've seen you dance, you brought me so high, you were flying. I've watched as you danced the good necessary medicine right into a room. It came from your feet, not your lit up head. Your name is such a lovely melody. I've…

.

The last sip of my dry (very dry and dirty) gin martini tasted like a crude motor oil.

. . .and still wild roses star far fields the same.

waves assaulted black volcanic rock in briny harmony

As ghosts, they became lovers. Rodion would strum the Underwood keys like a balalaika. Lizaveta would sing.

Maybe he deserved it.

When the compost thaws the past oozes out into the present....

On the gravel in front of my feet lies a small piece of paper folded in four. I pick it up and unfold it. I see letters — a foreign word perhaps. I fold it again and let it warm up in my hand. Sitting now near the lamp, I put on my glasses and scrutinise the…

...the room was filled with a brightness and a breeze, making you think you were up in the clouds.

a fat crow rapturously caws over its good fortune... not a morsel left on the street, not even a bloodstain

[Scumbag scumbag ― fuck you!!! Stop reading this it's my private JOURNAL!!! Thanks. ;) ]

It was a battered, creaky, rickety old thing, this wheelbarrow. It had two wooden handles with cracks running through the wood, a fat rubber wheel and a deep tray encrusted with the mud and plaster and grout that it had transported through decades of heavy use. Based on…

Thus does time fly and we with it. Because time flies on the cosmic scale, curious things inevitably occur in local circumstances.