It does not matter whether it happened or not. It was written, and that makes it real enough. Any other conclusion is preposterous and drawn from wild theories and unreliable senses.
Sometimes people worry themselves into cold springs. They sit and sit and groan, like icy pistons pressed too close into themselves. Theirs is the path lined with nettles, grown from flowers that they cast in the front of their course. Sad self saints. So slowly. So slow. And these people forget that they are the saints, they forget their wings and their robes and they forget what it is to bleed sunshine.
Lo, let the sunshine be bled, like some great gory watering of the celestial field. It shall grow, develop, mature into old age, like a comfortable rhythm of rhyme. And the great Scythe shall be rendered blunt, by the flood of bled light, red light.
And still sometimes people worry themselves into cold springs.
You know what this sings? It sings, yes it sings.
Of things to be foretold, wheree'er the winter's cold.
Too many tribes for ten fingers, ten toes, two eyes, one tongue.
And sometimes cold springs still themselves into worry people.
And from there, we may proceed towards less important matters.
The product of much time spent knitting brows and needles together. It's grey and fringed, all done by hand. I haven't actually measured it out yet, but I'm guessing it clocks in at around 8, maybe 9 feet.
I added a discreet button loop and a metallic vintage button to keep it wrapped around me when it gets windy. It's also just a nice bit of hardware introduced into something that never has any. ♦DiggIt! ♦Add to del.icio.us ♦Add to Technorati Faves