Quid rides? Mutato nomine de te fabula narratur.” Horace, Satires (35-33? BCE)
The Law of Mind(s)
I beg your brief indulgence, kind spectator. Allow me this somewhat ad hominem, exegetical tirade.
The wound spits forked sparks in the penumbral sea of solitudinous stench, shuffling forth a tumescent tongue and disenfranchised mass, which trickles in dribs and drabs beyond a veil of obtuse, ill tiding. Metallic teeth cutting breath.
Cowards colors run up a pole, buoyed upon ugly wind. Raising a death’s head upon a mucocele. Stinks...
The seven ran for two days, only stopping to eat and sleep a few hours at a time knowing the enemy was a day behind them. They were going to try to lose them in the forest, but when Joven climbed up a tree, he looked back and saw dust rising in the distance. “They’re gaining on us” Joven cried out, twenty feet up on a branch. “How far?” Elio, the squad leader yelled back. “Fifteen maybe twenty miles” Joven responded. “I just can see them yet”. Elio thought for a second. “They’re running at full speed. They’ll reach the tree line by dusk.” “They’ll be...