hills_and_dust werewolf a rhythm unpurturbed but scattered to a timescale beyond sapien sapien the light blue of any sunset an ancient upheaving over ancient hills fog sifts into valleys nearer to the moon than to the hunting grounds stained with inedible gore. they are doomed to write about their ancestors, when they can. The smoke moves on in a fire, and a scarred hunter feels the blinding pain like a stabbing, like an orgasm, seconds slip by that there are no recorded words for an empty stretch the first person underbelly trampling of a stag. There is no return from the instant. The survivors are left to bury the dead. entomb, also a word that was never uttered. 020507 what's it to you? who go blather from