Estuary, I ask you. “Why does only the corsair fly in even air, a cavalier, an expedient that rails in circumspect, aloof, neath the hollow sky”? I recall the sip of ray that burst through that meadow’s loft, incarcerated in dew’s drift on a blood horizon. I could sift through the tangent trails, but I pursue no angularity now. I am immortal, but doomed. Unstable the horse! That brilliant sun isn’t given to shallow dirt. It burns to run, to kick and frolic. Give a dose of poison to that wayfarer that he might intercept some treacherous mayhem that may befall the crooked nook, and let it spill its velowed nectar into that flat river, so quiet, the heart beat of a dozen denizen’s demiae. I favor instead the current’s wrath. I sink to the narrow valley, and vanish to the phantom ridges of equinoxes and paradoxes to relinquish the sceptre, the ax that cuts the dragoon from its moor, half sunken, fortune’s relic, what is left of a fantasy. What is now the remnant of the paradigm of purgatory. – Sinz
