a poet's poem

Trace was picked up off the floor of the guildmaster’s office by one of the guild's enforcers, an orc, and shoved roughly back on to the wooden chair.

sometimes I plan thinking

Good Luck

The wind is warm but fierce hurrying the clouds on their way I sit on the cliff top and watch As all the seasons roll by The beauty of the gently rolling surf The warm golden sands

“My legs won’t go down” “What?” “My legs wont go down” Laughing now, “Why?” “Cos there’s no air in them”

I have had this book out Four times now- 'Autobiographics' By Leigh Gilmore How we can theorise Our life stories. Gilmore eschews Familiar generic questions Apparently. I eschew the theory