affame_le_geant_on_off___ fyn gula "for a moment, i had a view of the world that seemed to wear a vast and dismal aspect of disorder, while in truth, thanks to our unwearied efforts, it is as sunny an arrangement of small conveniences as the mind of man can conceive." ~joseph conrad "lord jim" dogs have fleas. a momentary bite causes a brief interruption. the dog sits down. back leg addresses the need to scratch. itching is gone until the next one. puppertwinkle only wished it was easy as dealing with fleas. for when his itching started, no scratching could stop it. it intensified beyond reproach, as if the blame lay enclosed in bone and not centered in the betrayal of his epidermis. it consumed his being, until there was only one thought inside of him and that was this: when do i die so this will stop? tripod watched puppertwinkle in his misery like his life was french cinema and the pain would turn into something beautiful. she was detatched, because she was without emotion. talking to him was like writing words on paper and then setting them on fire before anyone read them. so they stood there in silence until time did its work. in less than an hour while pregnant clouds shifted and birthed the children of flying snow, puppertwinkle, layered by an onset of uncontrollable shivering, was covered by sores that openly wept infectuous pus. tripod put her nursing skills to immediate service. she made a quick bed out of white pine branches and sturdy oak bark. before tucking puppertwinkle under the sheepskin that had been rolled up inside the saddlebags, she dug golden seal root from the earth and made a fresh poultice to apply on his nasty sores. puppertwinkle grew delerious with the suffering. it was the one way his body was able to accept the pain, that is, to take it and use it . so it became a sledge hammer and pounded him on top of the head. and the lights inside who he once was were turned off. on off 021223 what's it to you? who go blather from