2003-11-25 - 4:40 p.m.
Into grist of powder and dust with mixtures of air and soil and spittle fly I. Winged?
No! But sailing no less on bare breast willy flopping and lower lip flapping swooping
low and arcing, climbing fueled on dreams and energized by the nightmarish consequences
of non-conformance. To soar easily and bravely into dangerous thickets of pine and herds
of elk producing neither sound nor ruffle of turbulence. I land like superman; elbows
out fists chest-high and leaning back in my descent, the weight at once on my hooves.
Quick! Survey and perform pre-flight check. Check! Run, jump, into grist of powder with
mixtures of air and soil and spittle fly, anywhere but here, any time but now.
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