Oh, you, embroiderer of facts, perverter of truths...

In Southwerk at the Tabard I dined, relaxing and awaiting the morne...

I slice the paddle through the water and repeat the pattern without a path in mind...

I was the innocence scribbled in childhood...

immersed in layers of dark, we all suffer from dripping hearts...

Monday...

Take me down to the lake past noon...