boshmi
Uhh doing writing
Go Down Moses
Somewhere in the midwest, 1947 When Israel was in Egypt’s land CLANG let my people go CLANG ‘pressed so hard they could not stand
Upon the Writhing Lake
(transcript issued September 2019, excerpt from the pages reclaimed in St. Evelyn's manor) The cove which lay beyond my own abode was a peculiar place in its own right; one shrouded in a tryst between the rumination of townsfolk and the tales of salty mariners, those whom remained cognitive enough to tell them. Regardless, the place had been deserted for some years now and in lieu of any proper occupation I took it upon myself to purchase the land. The man who sold it to me was a peculiar fellow to say the least; eyes like dark pearls and a mouth like a gash; unsmiling, unmoving, lest a trickle of gore fall from those lips. His hat was polished to perfection, mustache a charcoal smear on his lip, and throughout the entire affair he never once seemed to take his gaze from my face. Peculiar to say the least. He said nought as I signed the deed, though upon reflection, I admit to a change in the air. A shimmer, as though something beyond time and space had nudged itself and thus affected the thread of all reality. Needless to say I am a businessman by trade, and as a man lacking in the more… scrupulous of religious virtues, I was disinclined to acknowledge such a shift as anything more than the wind. The encounter ended as it began. He was silent as he exited my quarters, stealing not so much as a backwards glance.
For my Louisa
The hell are you hoping to find out there anyway? The ranger’s words ring in my ears. Not accusatory, more a suggestion of concern. Few come out into this dusty scrubland by choice unless they have a good reason.
