a_message_without_adornment vichy the cart wheels creaked and so they stopped to spray WD4o and it worked long enough to have thoughts turn into poetry, for longing to turn into love. along the bianca strada, the heat of summer was evident. black-eyed susans strained to maintain any assemblance of bloom as their leaves withered in the moisture sucking swelter. rain was a memory, when water once fell unrestrained from a frustrating sky. the little dog was exhausted from serving the man made of stone, for not only was he blind, but he could not move. he could articulate feeling, but could not transform thought into motion and this is what planted the seeds of depression. weeds grow with roots so long when one attempts to pull them out, they break off and regrow, this time stronger. yank them again and find it even more difficult. his longanimity was not wihout limit. and so the cart rolled on its way to mercy, any kind of noble assistance. 020812 ... mon hello this_is the_future turn_back before it's too_late 030831 what's it to you? who go blather from