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Getting The PictureThe grotto drawing you back in your mind’s eye, is penciled in just enough to get the picture. A loosely rendered girl, sitting on the sand to your right, strikes a pose and waits, for you to do something with that thing in your lap. In the near future, as a matter of fact, somewhere just ahead, flames lick the collected works of Pope behind a caravan’s buckling walls. Inexhaustible foot-candles, fueled by your exploding home, light up a colonnade of pines running down a lightless forest road. Now, the further you walk away, from the heat, the light, the worse things get. Put simply, you are in a bad way. Having said that, you winter over on the mountain with your women. The lot of you, put up by a Lucky Friday miner. One after another, in the narrowing vein of the season, the girls give it up – trade, their favors for a broken promise. Dug up, one drunken evening, from the bottom of a hope-chest, and lost for all time to the miner’s buried wife. |
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