stories_always_end past the pages of the used paperback were picked up by the early morning rain, scattered about land from the quiet forests to the boom and bust mine towns, across that great terrible lake and the prairies beyond settling, finally, at the toes of the alberta foothills. where does the music go when the voice who summoned the undercurrent of a nation is stilled? does it chug along, determined like the railways that defy the progress of the automobile and flight? as the sun goes down, we're finally set free by embracing the heartbreak of the moment, by bringing out the good things he created for us. 230502 what's it to you? who go blather from