"My wound is Geography" Marlet said, as she swung on her coyote dun to take it down to the waterhole. We've come to love this land and we claim it for mind and body and we take with it the Fauna and Flora, the Wild and Feral. The senses don't worry about periodic tables, and the waters stayed, they hated stairs...I find a little black filly, a looking glass into the inner workings of this world...I call her silhouette, she has not much to say, but when I try to hold my breath she takes my breath away. What if things come to an end, the Mustangs get thinned out so they deteriorate and slowly decay and disappear? Will the children cry virtue or virtuality...
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