Handful by slow handful, the ghosts of the water are carried into the desert, to dance among the dunes.
He drowns the canteen. Holds its head under water till he is sure it is dead. Then slings its bloated corpse to his saddle and rides out into the sand.
For three days he drinks from its death. Afterwards death drinks from him.
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Of shoes -- and ships -- and sealing wax -- Of cabbages -- and kings -- And why the sea is boiling hot -- And whether pigs have wings.
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- Living to fight another Tag
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4 comments:
Hey, all well I hope. This and the previous post together don't look too good.
~N.
pay your water bills already, falstaff.
N: *in tortured voice* No, I'm not all right. All this censure. All this wanton misrepresentation. All these people accusing me of being child haters. I can't take it any more. I'm going to end it all, I really am.
I'm fine. What could possibly happen to me?
km: Water water everywhere, but not a glass of lassi to drink.
Ha ha.. touche!
Blame it on my wild imagination and reading between the lines.
Glad to know you're fighting fit. :)
~N.
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