/lit/ - Literature

Move and countermove, the unbridled brilliance of the lowly sun seeks that joyous white of the moon. There is a priest, one who stands far up the cliff of moss and hearts. Will there be no justice? Mankind's hatred has surpassed all that came before. Hated in the nation, hated on the family, hated in America, France and the wider world. Some answers unveil themselves in surrounding symphony, where torrents of torments shape the rocks of seeing. There will always be another, there will always be another. Someone is overrated, everyone is known. Garish blonds of summer have given over to the winds of change, the greys like horses, smashing through the blue line of stillness and stagnation. Peace reigns again at night, save those who wander the streets, crisscrossed nylons nagging at their bare arses that have seen a few too many lashings. Women are not us, yet they are something to be discovered and shared. We will all come to understand somethings new about ourselves, should we give ourselves completely to one another, the fifth dimension of love, xyz and time aside. Judith tasted like sour cream, spread so thinly that there was no way to think how or why.