Truth & Beauty: spilling out of the folds of her dress
There's nothing there: we craft the walls of our own prisons and fill them with our exception's imagination.
Even in the Outlands, closer to death more aware more at peace with all and everything, he thought longing of his books. What had become of them? Had they succumbed to the fires as so much else? He hoped not. He dared not dwell.
"Got any food?"
"Well... Got any money?"
"Well, what do you got?"
"A good bit of rope. An appetite for destruction. And a two illegal knives."
"Do you have a plan?"
"Well, Anthony... I say we steal some food. But first we need to steal a couple bandit hats."
"I am intrigued. But first, lend me one of them bitchin' knives."
I write in bursts. In fits and starts and Sunday rains. It don't mean nothing.
The world is ending and we are ending with it. Whimper. Bang.
"Excuse me, sir."
"I have this here stabbing knife as does my esteemed associate. Lest we use them to decorate your viscera, give us some food. Also, is that your daughter behind you?"
"Yes. Her name is Beth. Also, what type of food?"