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Once there were brook trouts in the streams in the mountains. You could see them standing in the amber current where the white edges of their fins wimpled softly in the flow. They smelled of moss in your hand. Polished and muscular and torsional. On their backs were vermiculate patterns that were maps of the world in its becoming. Maps and mazes. Of a thing which could not be put back. Not be made right again. In the deep glens where they lived all things were older than man and they hummed of mystery RIP to the greatest novelist of our time. gently caress.
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Jun 13, 2023 20:56
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| # ¿ May 15, 2024 23:07 |
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Danger posted:Uh Pynchon is still alive, probably Fair but I like McCarthy better.
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Jun 13, 2023 21:26
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