My steed shall be the oldest dairy cow you can find. When she's been decommissioned and her usefulness is nearly spent she will be the one to bear me to you. I'll come right up the driveway, slowly, surely Riding sidesaddle, as if you'd care, we'll leave hoofprints that would scour the face of any breadcrumb. And when I descend from my ignoble steed the door will be waiting open, hungry as a cow.
My robes shall be as tattered as the apprentice's piece. With a texture so horrid its only slightly preferable to a hessian sack. It'll be too small in some places and sagging in others. So misshapen that I'll have to be sewn into it. You will take my arm and walk with me, the abrasion a lingering reminder of the possibilities to come. But at the end of the day when we've returned home, you'll be the one to help me out of it again and again.
My quarrel will be a dust storm on the horizon. You think you're prepared, you've been exposed to dust devils before after all. The damp rags under the doors and by the windowsills won't be enough. Gathering in places seen and unseen, the taste infiltrating everything you eat or drink. You may go insane but you WILL be changed. And in years to come when you find a few grains of sand in a breast pocket of something you thought long tucked away, you'll weep in prostration.
Our game will be as futile as any others. To live to act to bleed to breathe to burn and smolder and dissipate. You keep the tinder coming and I'll keep fanning the flame. Our score perpetually unknown, we will make up our own points, rules. Counting the stars to write them down with golf pencils on the backs of torn-open envelopes and discarded egg cartons. And though neither of us have any idea how to add those types of numbers, our proofs will be immaculately iron clad.
theartofmadeline
germansingergirl
origamiaround
titsay
2087
areudirty
romaincrisis
