tamed raze the woman who lords over this land squints to see a few faded numbers on a receipt. she spies a six beside some other dim digit. her daughter is a dancer. her husband is a king. somewhere south of sadness she's forgotten how to sing. what she wants most of all is to write the great novel of her time, but all her stories come out broken and bite-sized. wearied by the word count of a thing nowhere near the finish line, she gazes at the gaunt houses of strangers, each one with a ragged ladder that flares from flue to frozen ground, and wonders what it would be like to walk those wooden rungs down to the dirt without a word to tame or trouble her. 260327 what's it to you? who go blather from