marox_pass_no_more_confetti
fyn gula copello dusted himself off from red river dust, gravel, and some odd pebbles that pock-marked his elbow, already beleaguered by a nagging poison ivy rash. he wasn't happy with the way the impromtu play went, depicting the sudden, unexpected dog attack. even though improvisational and penetratingly brutal in dramatic portrayal, it was the voice he didn't like, too much cummings, not enough tim roth.

the applause, resonant in its exhuberance (the giants deep bass, the soldier's surprising alto harmonies on the hearty cheers) was long, almost time consuming. still, he knew they were at least captivated, if not abandoned to the wonder he knew. but there was no more confetti to throw.

and so he continued with the story of fyn gula with as much detail as he could labour, twelve-fourteen hours, and full sleep, though weak in volume. this time he spun the yarn without words.
010803
...
log burning fire i'm going to be free.
i'm going to be brave.
i'm going to live each day as if it's my last.
fantastically.
courageously.
ok? ok.
060317
what's it to you?
who go
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