In the beginning was the word – and then another – and another. The adventure arrived like waves crashing in a dream – the dark waters – the blinding sunlight. Juices flowing – fingers racing – imagining the recipe – thoughts baking – black on white – laughing at the lion – no farewells.

And then the desert, the empty water bottle in the sand and shotgun in the closet.

Poor Ernest.

I’m so glad prose never excited me and God is my God.


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