The Piston GateMood was only a beginning
the first word of a new chapter the arc and wash of it as if they dreamed of cleanliness again a curtained register obscured by clouds across this wasteland distance * * * * * * * she provided a diagnosis which it seemed had sucked them into something resembling tenderness it was not the time or the place for other shards of consequence “this is not our time” they repeated as the light turned golden * * * * * * * did she understand the knifing pain the knowing pain that dragged him from the earthy bonding of mud into the shrieking scream of birdsong it was a sound that needed to be heard before he buried himself behind the piston gate.
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