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Memo2File: Exhibit A

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Robot Wisdom by Alfred Bester


His senses uncrossed in the ivory-and-gold star chamber of Castle Presteign. Sight became sight and he saw the high mirrors and stained glass windows, the gold-tooled library with an android librarian on the library ladder. Sound became sound and he heard the android secretary tapping the manual beadrecorder at the Louis Quinze desk. Taste became taste as he sipped the cognac that the robot bartender handed him.

He knew he was at bay, faced with the decision of his life. He ignored his enemies
and examined the perpetual beam carved in the robot face of the bartender, the classic
Irish grin.

“Thank you,” Foyle said.

“My pleasure, sir,” the robot replied and awaited its next cue.

“Nice day,” Foyle remarked.

“Always a lovely day somewhere, sir,” the robot beamed.

“Awful day,” Foyle said.

“Always a lovely day somewhere, sir,” the robot responded.

“Day,” Foyle said.

“Always a lovely day somewhere, sir,” the robot said.

Foyle turned to the others. “That’s me,” he said, motioning to the robot.

“That’s all of us. We prattle about free will, but we’re nothing but response…
a mechanical reaction in prescribed grooves. So.. – here I am, here I am, waiting to
respond. Press the buttons and I’ll jump.” He aped the canned voice of the robot. “My
pleasure to serve, sir.”

“… Press the button and watch the robot jump. But I’m not a robot. I’m a freak of the universe… a thinking animal… and I’m trying to see my way clear through this morass. Am I to turn Pyr E over to the world and let it destroy itself? Am I to teach the world how to space-jaunte and let us spread our freak show from galaxy to galaxy through all the universe? What’s the answer?”

The bartender robot hurled its mixing glass across the room with a resounding crash.

“The answer is yes,” the robot said, quite distinctly. [click to continue…]

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After Gilroy: Mass shootings a white thing? Oh, hell, no [HT: ghostsniper]

“One hard-hitting fact: In the chronic USA mass shooting incidents, in 99 % of the cases, the perpetrators: White, Anglo-Saxon, Christian, Americans.”

Salon, the Daily Beast, Mother Jones, and other staples of the mass media cannot spread these fairy tales fast enough.  The facts tell a different story –” the opposite story.

Anyone up for a magical mystery tour of mass shootings over the last two weeks where black people shot three or more people?  (You can follow along on my video; just click here.) [And it is worth it.]

Let’s start in Brooklyn on Saturday night and let the headlines tell the stories:

1. As many as 12 people shot in Brownsville, Brooklyn: Police.

2. In Philadelphia on July 28: 1 dead, 5 wounded in shooting during rap video production.

3. In Philadelphia on July 28: 6 shot in Southwest  Philadelphia.

4. In Uniontown, Pa. on July 28: Multiple Uniontown shootings injure 4 people.

5. In Chicago on July 20: 7 shot in Lincoln Park near Fullerton Beach.

6. On Wichita on July 27: Wichita shooting, victim and suspect identified. [click to continue…]

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Memo2File: A “Memo For File” from The House

Why do we not kill each other?

Is it because I was afraid of going to jail? Maybe, but before that there was respect for human life. There was the acknowledgment that once someone is born and breathing and walking around among us, it isn’t my place to take a life away, there’s something bigger and more important than me at work here. Uh…what’s The Left been doing to promote that?

Don’t stop talking politics. Both sides are not equally “at fault” with what’s changed, and politics is what’s changed. Politics shows — all too clearly — that whatever capacity we once had to discuss things and find common ground, using our disparate perspectives to work toward a common goal, this seems to have slipped out of our grasp. These awful events are merely a horrible extension of this. As far as the mental health aspect of it goes…it’s really all of us who have the mental health problem. Yeah, a lot of these kids are on psychotropic drugs. Well why did our society see fit to put so many kids on those drugs? Is it really because they needed the drugs, or because the rest of us can’t deal with conflict?

Stop excluding people and stop de-valuing human life. Stop replacing camaraderie and sense of community with “self esteem.” They’re not the same thing. There are consequences to this mistake. As found at House of Eratosthenes

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Oh, there is no human more arrogant than a “woke” 19-year-old – except that same man or woman 50 years later who never grew up, never learned a thing. (And still has the same ponytail, now in grey and far far back on his bald empty head…)

For me, mass shootings are a symptom of the rejection of morality, ethics, family, decency and citizenship that were among the bedrock principles that built this nation. So it’s no coincidence that for the past 50 years, feminism, free love, do your own thing, moral relativism, and a rejection of traditional family values among other things morphed into open warfare on those people and institutions identified with the aforementioned. (i.e. white, Judeo-Christian, monogamous, heterosexuals). And who led the charge? The Left. And why? To destroy America as founded and replace it with “paradise on earth” for which the Almighty and All-Powerful State would make you eternally happy, or grind you into the dust trying.

We have reached the point now where the judges no longer feel that have any need to respect the spirit of the laws and the system that created them. Every case that goes to the Supreme Court has four votes for or against it, regardless of the issue. The four Progressive fanatics are so predictable, it is just assumed they will rule in favor of their tribe’s wishes. The only question is which “conservative” judge will be selected to fink on his team and side with the orientalists on the bench.

God is not glib. As evidence, let me cite the extent of the universe, and the complexity of its parts. Yet to the mind of a Darwinist, or other tomfool, God is imagined as a random, non-teleological process; as movement with no end in view. God is conceived as if He were glib.

Ditto on the moral, and legal, planes. We appropriate the divine; declare ourselves authors of goodness and truth; draught standing orders and legislation. We legislate “progress” by intellectual oversight, replacing what is changeless with things that are changing. It is interesting that not only the Christian but the ancient pagan traditions were free of this arrogance, in which we assume that chance and destiny lie within our power. But all human power is illusory. In the end every one of us is dead.

Although still our most efficient way of killing eagles, is there a hidden downside to wind turbines? New Study Shows Wind Turbines Stopping Earth’s Rotation. Can We Survive Global Slowing?

TrollasaurusRx on Twitter: “https://t.co/XrBINTcwCH… “

Best Ice Cream Sandwich Recipe Roundup – Matcha Ice Cream Sandwiches with Vegan Ginger Molasses Cookies??? No. Just No. [click to continue…]

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Why? Because.

The day after the day after the day after the day after and the huffing and puffing of the blameblather tsunami just rolls on. In the end, even if nobody wants to admit it, “anybody who can pick up a frying pan owns death.”

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“Whatever happened to ‘crazy?” — Chris Rock


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From The LawDog Files     Let me stop you right there, Scooter …

Over the years I have picked up some … fans? These are folks what don’t like me for various reasons — because I’m a cop, or I’m conservative, or a gun-owner, or former military, or whatever — but who don’t have the common courtesy to sod off to someplace else that they’ll be more appreciated.

Most of these folks catch the ban-hammer and expire quietly in my spam-box and an IP block with no fanfare, but a couple of them have slipped through the cracks.

Mostly because I don’t hear from them until some deviant no-account little pismire decides to cash in his voucher for 15 minutes of fame, said voucher being backed and guaranteed by the US Mainstream Media.

Sure enough, some pathetic little scrote-scraping decided to be famous in El Paso, and sure as the gods made little green apples the Media oiled up their stiletto-heeled leather blood-dancing boots and squeezed into their Christian Dior hair-shirt corsets and Made Him Famous. Just like the contract promises.

And — again, gods and little green apples — my inbox comes up with emails starting with: “It’s time for …” or “Common sense …” or “You have to agree …”

Let me stop y’all right there.

The answer is “No.”

No, I’m not going to give up my guns.

I don’t care. I’m not giving up my guns. [click to continue…]

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Imagine by Fredric Brown

Imagine ghosts, gods, and devils.

Imagine hells and heavens, cities floating in the sky and cities sunken in the sea

Unicorns and centaurs. Witches, warlocks, jinns, and banshees.

Angels and harpies. Charms and incantations. Elementals, farmiliars, demons.

Easy to imagine all of those things: mankind has been imagining them for thousands of years.

Imagine spaceships and the future.

Easy to imagine; the future is really coming and there’ll be spaceships in it.

Is there then anything that’s really hard to imagine?

Of course there is.

Imagine a piece of matter and yourself inside it, yourself, aware, thinking and therefore knowing you exist, able to move that piece of matter that you’re in,” to make it sleep or wake, make love or walk uphill.

Imagine a universe-infinite or not, as you wish to picture it- with a billion, billion, billion suns in it.

Imagine a blob of mud whirling madly around one of those suns.

Imagine yourself standing on that blob of mud, whirling with it, whirling through time and space to an unknown destination.

Imagine!

Written by Fredric Brown, 1955

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This happened last Thursday in Parkland, WA

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Boomer Anthems: Summer of ’69

50 years? What’s that? An inch of time.

They say that anyone who remembers the Sixties wasn’t there? My problem is that I was there and I remember everything. [click to continue…]

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“Women shop. Men resupply.”

When I worship at the Cathedral of Food ( “Whole Foods — Why Pay Less?”), I don’t buy meals, I buy components. I’ve lived alone for some time but buy like I’m supplying a small tribe. I’ve tried to control this by selecting the “little” cart; that grocery Miata that lets you believe you’re not really buying as much as you are. It doesn’t work. I come home, unpack my “kills” — at about $69 a bag — and mumble, “Who’s going to eat all this?”

Houseguests are the gods’ answer to “Who’s going to eat this?” They are. That’s okay. I love to cook for people. I’m good at it and it gets boring cooking for one; expensive too since I loathe leftovers.

The supply problems return when your house guests are stealth eaters. You know who I mean. Yes, you. Stealth eaters never, ever overeat — except on the sly. Stealth eaters are the Merrill’s Marauders of the post-midnight refrigerator.

Ordinary stealth eaters can be contained. The damage done by their pillage is obvious. You had half of a banana cream pie in the frig at sunset but by dawn it is gone. Vanished. Evaporated. Kaput. Never to be heard from again. Not so much as a ransom note, just a crumpled tin husk folded and stuffed down the side of the garbage bag beneath the camouflage of a crumpled milk carton.

Not pleasing, especially when you were planning on banana cream pie for breakfast. Still, you suck up your sorrow, move on, and resupply.

Not so with the worst sort of stealth eater — the dreaded food eroder.

The food eroder wishes to eat but not be seen eating nor to be known to have eaten. The food eroder is so stealthy he or she can even conceal their eating from themselves. The food eroder can make your entire refrigerator into a Potemkin village where you think you have a LOT of food, but actually have almost none. A food eroder deals in cuisine disinformation.

Case in point:

Some weeks back I had a house guest. This houseguest was a very careful eater — someone cognizant of the fine points of nutrition; someone who knew the calories in a twice-baked potato down to the last bacon bit swimming in a buttered slough of sour cream. This nameless but shameless someone also had a finely tuned economic indicator and never met a leftover that was not loved, caressed, and consumed — even when the original meal was lost to recorded history.

I once had a kind of grudging respect for this guest who was so much more disciplined about food than I could ever hope to be. But that was before I discovered — after the guest’s departure — that I had been sharing my home and sacred refrigerator with a food eroder, a late-night Ninja nibbler. [click to continue…]

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Real Estate Agent Posts 25 Of The Worst Home Design Finds By Her Fellow Agents [click to continue…]

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Memo2File: Let’s Take the Perp for a Drag Instead

Dash Cam of Officer dragged and struck on a Vehicle onto the Freeway. Georgia  [click to continue…]

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Memo2File: Zip It About His Tweets Already.

WARNING: Don’t Ever Try to Out-Troll the Master [click to continue…]

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Memo2File Re: Reducing Exposure to Toxic Facebook

[Note: Normally I use a Facebook extension to clip Internet items of interest to FB. It’s a kind of websurfer’s scrapbook. The extension does this automatically in the background without requiring me to go to Fb to add it to my timeline.  That’s how I keep track of things I’d like to write about or simply use in True But Forbidden. This method, of course, requires me from time to time to actually go to Facebook. FB, in the current wave of insanity, has become more and more toxic as more and more are sucked deeper and deeper into the political frenzy that has gripped the left, making them look like nothing so much as a weak-minded, soul-tainted daisy chain.  So I’m taking a break from the FB cesspit. Instead, look for a host of short items to appear here from time to time for the next month. Sometimes text, sometimes a quote, sometimes a graphic or a video.  I’ll try and keep them mostly off the main page by using the more tag and “Click to Continue.” Like this:]The Morning Briefing: Obama’s Legacy Is President Donald J. Trump | Trending [click to continue…]

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The world is charged with the grandeur of God.
It will flame out, like shining from shook foil;
It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil
Crushed. Why do men then now not reck his rod?
Generations have trod, have trod, have trod;
And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil;
And wears man’s smudge and shares man’s smell: the soil
Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod.

And for all this, nature is never spent;
There lives the dearest freshness deep down things;
And though the last lights off the black West went
Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs —
Because the Holy Ghost over the bent
World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings.

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Rantomatic #3: Ace’s Talking Ape Types for Me

“Ever since 1980 I’ve heard liberals hyperventilating about the menace of the “far right” in this country. I’ve heard dire warnings about theocracy about to descend on us. We’re just one Trump EO away from the Handmaid’s Tale. Progressives actually believe this.

“Of course, all of this is so silly, it’s hardly worth refuting.

“But you know what? At this point, I don’t care. In fact I can’t wait. I actually want this to happen. Bring on the theocracy! I want to see liberals silenced by force for a change. I want to see the things they hold dear smashed and mocked and degraded before their eyes. I want to see feminist bakers forced to produce cakes with “A woman’s place is in the home” written in icing. I want to see progressives keeping silent out of fear. I want to see them brutalized by thugs who know they won’t be punished. I want to see their gender studies classes disrupted by screaming goon squads. I want to see their politicians obscenely mocked, slandered, and ran out of restaurants. And I want them to realize the laws won’t save them.

“Because they were okay with lawlessness when it was directed at someone else. What are they going to do when it comes back at them, when they’ve destroyed the only means that could save them?

“In short I want every f*ing progressive in America to have their faces ground in the dirt the way they’ve been grinding the flag of this country in the dirt.”

Stimulated by Trimegistus who writes:

“I used to be a libertarian, but I’ve come to realize the concept of “victimless crime” is a damned lie. Decriminalize weed and you don’t get a society of enlightened cheerful hippies. You get a bunch of dysfunctional stoners because making it easier for fuckups to fuck themselves up means more fuckups. Decrmininalize prostitution and you don’t get a society of healthy guilt-free hedonism, you get people incapable of actual relationships, you get massive STD rates, and you get women viewing themselves as commodities to be sold. Legalize gay marriage and you don’t get stable same-sex relationships, you get the eternal ratcheting-up of faggot “transgressiveness” and another blow to religion; you get the brutal fist of the State forcing people to applaud degeneracy…

An example from The Morning Rant at the ever-popular Ace of Spades

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Rantomatic #2: David Warren Types for Me

It is true, I have been dawdling, and am at risk of further dawdling, so long as this summer lasts. Hardly anyone reads me, though; who will notice?

Truth to tell, I have nearly lost my mind, so that it wobbles on the precipice of being, and I am under an arguably moral imperative to, if possible, fetch it back. But then, mental health is often overstated. For instance, I have caught myself taking “events” with untoward seriousness, and devoting an unconscionable amount of time to perusing such filth as the Main Stream Meejah. At the risk of contradicting Mr Trump, there is no genius who can do that very long, and remain “extremely stable.” Indeed, I attribute the fact that all of our politicians are mad, to their universal habit of following the news. How could anyone maintain equanimity, keep an even temper, even a straight face, in such circumstances? Invariably they turn into strait ones.

And when they are not following the news, they are generating it.

“Monkey see, monkey do.”

Voters should demand that they take long, reflective vacations, for their frenetic activity is idle in entirely the wrong way. It should be philosophical. I propose that presidents only serve, and parliaments meet, once in a while. Their bureaucrats should likewise be encouraged towards indefinite truancy. By way of giving them the hint, we could stop paying them. Let them go to the fields to watch the food grow, and ready themselves to help come the harvest.

The French are good at this, or were. In France, by tradition, nothing happens during the month of August, and the government shuts down. I spent that month in Paris, once, and found that the city had become, except for a few abandoned tramps and lunaticks — and some critically necessary wine merchants — completely depopulated. Indeed, even the Sorbonne was emptied of its usual rioting communists. Even feral pigs had disappeared from the suburban arrondissements, in pursuit of their neighbours, to carry on their culinary researches in the départements. Finally, even I left. It was just too hot — that year as no doubt every other — and when the plumbing failed, the prospect of bathing in the Seine did not appeal to me.

I may still write one thing or another, now or then through the month, should I find myself present in Greater Parkdale, up here in the High Doganate, and feeling perversely industrious. For even my absences are unreliable. But gentle reader should ignore these things. He will find, if he shuts down his laptop, and any other devices he may own, past North American Labour Day, that nothing will have happened in this world, at all worth his attention.

Unless something does, but should that be the case, he is likely to be apprised, direc’ly.

All from the great David Warren at August calmative: Essays in Idleness

Take it away, Nat:

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Leading the pity-party of the century (So far) is this year’s most entertaining spiritual leader of the insane clown posse.

That’s the pith of the pity part but here’s the whole insane clown posse meeting and greeting their alien mistress: [click to continue…]

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Starting to appear linked across the Net, is the history Gone @” The California Sunday Magazine:


By the time I made it to Paradise, the deadliest wildfire in California history was four months past, and the burned-out ridge between the two river canyons was pouring rain. I was riding the Skyway, the road from Chico to Paradise, flatland to hilltop, trying to understand what forces had conspired last November to create a blaze of such anger that it took the lives of 85 people and destroyed 19,000 structures.

I had puzzled out enough disasters to know that tragedy was a force of intricate construction. It wasn’t one detached act that materialized as tragedy but myriad smaller acts — some incidental, some accidental, others malevolent — that lined up in perfect continuity. Had one circumstance in the sequence lost its footing, a cosmic stumble, the next circumstance would have never hitched on, and tragedy would have been averted.

Halfway into the ridge, the black clouds cleared, and the rain stopped falling. Through the ponderosa pine and cedar, the sun shot brilliant rays that lit up both sides of the Skyway. The extent of the fire’s destruction now came clear. My tour guide, Joan Degischer, a native of Paradise who married a Paradise boy and was raising two Paradise girls, counted six houses in her extended family that had been lost to the fire. As she drove from one ravaged spot to the next, she seemed unsure whether to narrate the ruin herself or keep quiet so that the visitor might find his own words.

On this perch of volcanic red earth, where gold mining gave way to logging and logging gave way to apple growing and apple growing gave way to suburbia, a misplaced place had arisen. What to call the experiment? If you counted the sprawl up the mountain that followed the original sprawl on the hill, 40,000 people lived atop a geologic chimney. Though the citizens through the decades were unable to muster the collective will to contain the growth, they did not proceed out of ignorance of the dangers it courted. Rather, they chose to forget about the last drought, the last flood, the last wildfire. And so, self-consciously, as if it might save them from such a fate, they insisted Paradise wasn’t a “city” they were building on the ridge. It was, upon incorporation in 1979, an official town. The Town of Paradise. The “Town with a future” went the slogan. [click to continue…]

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I don’t want to seem obsessive but when the world is as it is these days (and these days the world is on its ass) these videos are my happy place.

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True but Forbidden 35: From Nil to Eternity

The front-runner — the front-runner! — is septuagenarian gaffe machine Joe Biden, who started running for president in the Eighties and never finished higher than “candidacy withdrawn,” with a career delegate total matching John Blutarsky’s grade-point average, i.e., zero point zero. The summer’s “momentum” challenger is California Sen. Kamala Harris, who spent all year sinking in polls but surged when she hit Biden with “I don’t think you’re a racist . . . but . . .” on national TV.

Coming soon to an American City you wouldn’t want to visit: Africa’s booming cities face a severe toilet crisis “Less than 50 percent of the fecal sludge generated in Kampala safely reaches a waste treatment plant,” said Angelo Kwitonda, a sewage engineer with the government. “The rest of the volume is kept in our homes.” Outbreaks of cholera and other water-borne diseases are common.

Gin, Sex, Malaria, and the Hunt for Academic Prestige How the misadventures of Margaret Mead, Reo Fortune, and Gregory Bateson shaped anthropology. The holiday season found the three anthropologists in a swirl of expatriate parties in Ambunti — crowds of remote-post foreigners, by turns giddy and combative, fueled by gin and whiskey, the verbal barbs flying, then fists, then apologies all around and some quiet. The night after Christmas, Fortune got roaring drunk. In all their years of marriage, Mead had never seen him in that state. She, too, downed four cocktails and then fell into bed to sleep it off. Fortune kept at it the next day, with more drink and a steady-state slur. Mead and Bateson decided that a trip upriver might do everyone some good.

White police officers are not more likely to shoot minorities   “Our data show that the rate of crime by each racial group predicts the likelihood of citizens from that racial group being shot. If you live in a county that has a lot of white people committing crimes, white people are more likely to be shot. If you live in a county that has a lot of black people committing crimes, black people are more likely to be shot. It is the best predictor we have of fatal police shootings.” [click to continue…]

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Complete with guest appearance of Queen Victoria.

“We live in an environment where there are moving images constantly around us. But in 1897, this was startling and new and completely revolutionary. It was a different way of looking at the world.”

In 1939, MoMA acquired a treasure of thirty-six reels of 68mm nitrate prints and negatives made in cinema’s first years. Everything that survived of the Biograph film company lives on those reels, including a rare bit of moving image footage of Queen Victoria.

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In the Narrows

For Lois McNair Van der Leun who has gone home.

“Oh dear!” said Jill, coming another step nearer. “I suppose I must go and look for another stream then.”
“There is no other stream,” said the Lion.”
— C. S. Lewis

I.
The first time down the path
The cave is hidden from your eye.
You wander in a deep ravine
That frames a slice of sky.

Your unsure step will stumble
Where lizards prance on leaves,
But still His stream will carry you
Through the shadow-stippled breeze.

You’ll come to where the bathers bare
Sun themselves on steaming stones,
And one child’s laughter scintillates
Like water flowing over bones.

Oak roots reach down across the rock
And map the drift of streams.
The bathers loll within their sleep,
And reflect the shape of dreams.

Snakes and crickets search the seams
Of granite eons made,
While leaves slip through the air to spin
On water stained with shade.

The solid rock betrays your feet.
Your steps become unsure.
The raven on the boulder bows.
His wings begin to stir.

The grass bends down before the wind.
The ferns bow in the fading light.
The clouds retreat, the stars emerge,
The ravine is draped with night.
[click to continue…]

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