A Note From Machiavelli's World Trees are troubled. Birds look worried. Something is wrong with the rain. I'm looking over my shoulder these days stepping lightly, trying not to gather dust nor wake the sleeping from there journey. Being anonymous. This land is like a quicksand absorbing the life from my soul, so I keep moving past the dead and the dying, their eyes as dark and empty as coals at the bottom of deep dank wells, their open graves are for starring at the sky, what is happing here, am I in hell, suspended in the trilogy of time locked in the present, waiting for the future , wading through the past grinding shards beneath my feet? Alive among the living? Dying? Guessing as to why? Supposing as to how to be? All I know is here I am expecting eternities call someday. Life here? I don t know. I m just waiting it out, you see.
Dowan Jones's Questions:
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Suggest alternate presentation.