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The Cult of Sheep

Barlow’s eyes are shimmering, the light a sinuous display of  something towing beneath. His smile pious-like, marked with an etiolated kindness, this precarious softness and this mark of an adulterating isolation that only those who’d experienced can recognize. A secret for the initiated. But Barlow is not a monk, he is dashing in his blacksuit… Continue reading The Cult of Sheep

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Los’

Brawling vet. Sweat, breath, blood, Bear the placenta. Oh, sunken eye, hard cheeks and rugged jaws. Grow pain, Pensive lines and darkening dimples. The road slams at you and all the ways scatter – fizzzle sparkle – into the ether, From whence you came, The sister to that which made you undone.