Plots have I laid, inductions dangerous, By drunken prophecies, libels and dreams,– Richard iii



The commander took the coffee, nodded his thanks and dismissal.

They sat in the choir loft; it was the only place the tracks didn’t come between them.

He was a butcher, dried blood under his fingernails, bloody boots, aching muscles.

The typewriter sat on the credenza behind the desk, an idol to tech.

He couldn’t understand, where all the cowboys came from — there wasn’t any open range within five-hundred miles.


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