As of now he is a huntsman with his
blade riding up to his inner thigh with the hopes of yelling out a usually
whistled tune to attract the passersby with their wallets underneath their
skirts. The war goes on for him and his blade, it foretells party tunes and
track meetings all along the brick road with rice paving the way. Who wants to
wash up the cupboard when there's a window? The giant cranberries are
distilling themselves into the purest glasses of water, galvanising a hundred
bubbles in the year. That could be quite funny ahead of time provided that the
carpet is properly unfurled and the gurney is all laid out for a hiking trip to
the southern hummer of markers. In retrospect the camera could be panning to
the trepan but that could have been hammy considering the time and sequential
nice tries. It's yellow and brown and made of fiery necklaces. These are names
that are gradually creeping out the masses-
He does some laid out, laid back
yoga to appease them but that doesn't amount to much in the grand scheme of
things because these people are fickle and believe they deserve more than a few
pickpocket remarks. Nevertheless he does his best to treat them with proper
conical serenity and doesn't even get an award for making the impossible look
relatively easy. How the ghosts of his past must cling to him with gelatinous
reddish aspersions, how much they must hurt his splayed back and splay it some
more with their liquid strife. Run at the guns, run straight at the guns, as
the saying blows. He sometimes sees them on Sunday as they burst through his
door without invitation, speaking of terms that weren't fulfilled or wives that
never sealed the deal with their noses in the truffles-
He notices a scar where the
combustible food cart used to be on the train that lead more or less straight
into his strafing hill. The interior of which is reminiscent of the ancient
pyramids of offworld colonies, filled with the SHOUTERS and their ilk, all
priced in their boxes and demanding their civic rights to remain trapped in a
perpetual condition that no man could pronounce. That's why they detest men,
men handle the loneliness in their hosts much like a tree ready to come down
with political measles. And do you know where they keep the bees? They keep the
bees exactly where he doesn't know to look. They really hate his guts when it
all comes down to the promotional truth, they have no idea what he is and that
goes against him in at least eighty different ways. The capital of Tea is all
because of the chessboard and the words come tumbling away-
With one final comment about love,
the huntsman opens his pouch and lays down the law because he thinks he is
lucky. The swarm are coming to indoctrinate him but he will swing his walking
stick high and far away/
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