haiku 18 May 2017

Is it, then, just a
Random coincidence that
We would meet at all?

americanifesto / JPR / whorphan / 場黑麥

haiku 16 May 2017

Squirrels live in the walls.
Or are big rats nesting there?
Something moves, unseen...

americanifesto / JPR / whorphan / 場黑麥

logs of milk

The elephants paused to drink, ripping bark off of nearby trees. Men with guns had been chasing them for days, and the giants could not afford to dally.

The male’s tusks gleamed in the moonlight, meters-long logs of milk-white ivory. With a look of his weeping eye he conveyed his plan; with a flick of his trunk he caressed the face of his young calf before charging back, the way they had come. His mate lifted her trunk in farewell, then trotted off along a path of hard-baked clay.

The calf watched until its father’s shadow melded into the background of night, then turned to follow its mother. Soon - too soon - the mother heard the sounds of angry trumpeting, and sustained gunfire.

americanifesto / JPR / whorphan / 場黑麥

on taxing horses

In keeping with efforts to make up for taxes that are no longer being collected due to technological innovation, the U.S. Congress is debating a novel solution. Colloquially known as Horse Obsolescence Recovery Sequester Enactment, or H.O.R.S.E., HR-23.9947 (F) will require motor-vehicle-owners to pay a tax on each ‘horse’ of ‘horsepower’ their car or truck can muster.

“Not that long ago,” said Thorsten Hilddebrandt, congressman from New York (D), “one would have needed to employ scores of groomsmen and stable-boys to keep two hundred horses healthy, strong, and ready to go at a moment’s notice. With modern automobiles, however, all of those jobs and tax revenues vanish.” An apparently bipartisan issue, H.O.R.S.E. seems to be gaining traction on both sides of the aisle. “The tax burden must fall equally, no matter if people choose to drive a car or ride a horse,” said Barbara D. Geirhoff-Ferd, a Republican congresswoman from Florida. “Taking care of horses was a good, taxable job for many unskilled and lower-class individuals. America can no longer afford to let people who drive cars not shoulder their fair share of society’s burdens.”

Unsubstantiated rumors indicate that laws will soon be passed to steeply tax a wide array of cell-phone applications that take taxable jobs away from human calculators, map-makers, telephone-switchboard personnel, camera operators, board-game makers, notepad and pencil manufacturers, FM radio broadcasters, astronomers, filmmakers, and many others.

americanifesto / JPR / whorphan / 場黑

dreamstate writing 09 May 2017

This dream happened before I woke up to meditate:

I was touring the site of an ancient settlement. Giant, grass-covered earthworks covered the mountainside plateau upon which I and the others in my tour-group were walking. Man-sized stone stelae stood about, here and there. We came upon what seemed to be an inhabitant of the place who was wearing a poncho and a wide-brimmed hat. As we watched, he bent down and used a dustpan to scoop up bits of colored stone that had fragmented off a nearby stela. The monolith was roughly square in shape, its corners and top slope-cut in the manner of an Asscher or radiant diamond. The fragments were painted in dark colors, red and ochre.

I looked closer and saw that the rock seemed to have expanded from within, its entire outer layer covered with tiny cracks through which shone a sublayer of brilliant white. To me, it looked as if the rock were an animal shedding its skin, that the painted bits which littered the ground around it had served their purpose and were being discarded.

The local man was trying to sell the bits of rock to us, to which I chose to respond in anger. As I berated him verbally, I became aware that I and the other people in my group were sitting at long tables in a roofless laboratory of some kind. A wall at the front of the room was made of glass, one to our right was painted light grey. The hawker was doing chemical experiments of some sort on the fragments while still trying to convince me and the others to buy them. All of the other people in our group had their backs turned toward me and appeared to be staring at the glass wall. The way the others were not looking at me gave me the feeling that my efforts to yell at and berate the man in the wide-brimmed hat were a waste of time, a counterproductive effort.


This dream happened when I crawled back into bed get warm again after meditating:

I awoke to find that I had been sleeping on a wide expanse of masoned sandstone that seemed to be on top of a bridge or tall building. Beneath me was a comfortable bed piled high with blankets and pillows. Above me was the sky. I realized that my perch was not as high as I had thought and that other people were nearby, which caused me to worry about the location of my belongings. To my right behind a wall of glass were brick houses built next to a road that led up a steep hillside. One of the houses was covered with the most awesome graffiti I’d ever seen. I tried to get my phone out to take a picture of it but couldn’t bring my hands up to do so. 

In the dream, I sat up in bed, craning my neck to check on my belongings. I saw them together off to the side, lumped into a pile of clothes and bags, bundles of coat-hangers, old exercise equipment. Upon standing up to gather my things I discovered I was naked, which caused me a bit of concern. Once dressed more fully I walked over to tidy up my possessions. I was stuffing clothes into bags when I saw that some of my things were in a glass-walled room that I could only access via a short flight of stairs. As I was heading toward the room I walked past five men standing on the corner of the sandstone ledge. Standing in front of the four clad entirely in black was one wearing lighter tones and a hat, who said “Shakaloha” back to me when I passed him by and flashed him the surfer’s gesture.

After I had tidied up my things I went back to bed, concerned however that there was a pedestrian walkway just on the other side of a stone wall behind my head. A person leading a dog came down the sidewalk toward me. For some reason I wanted to hide from her, but knew I could not.

americanifesto / JPR / whorphan / 場黑麥

haiku 7 May 2017

A hard lesson to
Learn is that I’m not allowed
To Appoint myself.

americanifesto / JPR / whorphan / 場黑麥

haiku 4 May 2017

Thousands and thousands
Oh, so many written words.
What good comes of them?

americanifesto / JPR / whorphan / 場黑麥

north of Altadena

When I first reached the high-mountain campsite, it was just me and the host. He was in Ranger digs but his badge said volunteer. He was a troll, or as close to a troll as any person I’ve ever seen.

Looking up periodically from the book I was reading, I’d find him lurking behind a tree, his car, or the cinder-block outhouse, facing my way but never really making eye-contact.
He’d ignore hikers clearly in need of guidance but then harangue anyone who managed to track him down with a stump speech about his ‘hybrid’ religion, which boiled down to him mentioning, repeatedly, things like heaven, and heavenly father, and Jesus.
Talk of how all religions contain the golden rule.
Praise of a life lived in virtue, warnings about one lived in sin.
An email newsletter for his non-profit.
He’d address men as ‘brother’ in what seemed to me an unconsciously racist manner. He was an Internet troll come to life. He even looked like a troll, all chubby and red-faced, his hair so blond it was almost white.


After the first day, I learned to simply walk away from him whenever he got to talking. I felt bad about treating him like that, but I had recently started practicing being conscious and respectful of my own time - even if it meant hurting a few feelings, here and there.

The site next to mine was occupied when I crawled out of my tent on the morning of my third day.
A couple of attractive girls.
A few cool dudes.
I helped them get set up. We became friends quickly.
The drugs we’d brought soon became communal property. Except for the troll stopping by randomly every couple of hours to remind us of rules we weren’t breaking, the day progressed smoothly.
Things took a turn when one of the girl’s boyfriend showed up with a sack of cocaine in one pocket and a handgun in the other.


A bunch of us were enjoying an early evening campfire, laughing and telling stories, sparking blunts, snorting lines, sipping beers. A cellphone was playing upbeat music.
“Hey, man,” the campsite host said to me, yelling over from the road before walking uninvited toward us. Someone grabbed the bong and hid it from view. “I’d like to talk to you about what we spoke about yesterday, about the futility of existence.” I stood up and headed him off a dozen feet from the paraphernalia-strewn picnic table, enduring his sophomoric rant for long enough that my beer got warm.
He kept looking past me while talking, staring at the bikini-clad young ladies dancing near the fire. As soon as they realized he was watching, they put on shirts and sat down in a protective huddle.
I eventually removed him by backing away from him until we were standing next to his tent.

After the third such intrusion into our friendly congress, the boyfriend said, “If motherfucking Bobby Hill comes over here again for no reason, trying to creep on my girl and her friends, I’ll… fuck… I’ll kill him.” I glanced over at the troll and couldn’t help but laughing out loud - his resemblance to the son in TV’s ‘King Of The Hill’ was uncanny.
The boyfriend had arrived drunk that morning and hadn’t stopped drinking, since. During a dinner of burnt sausages and cold beans, he had placed his automatic pistol on the table in front of him.


The sun was just starting to set when the mountain above us caught fire, blocking our only exit route. We had enough water and food to last us for a couple of days, and our campsite sat near a running stream in a moist hollow. This knowledge, and the stupefying drugs, calmed our fears.
Often, when fire destroys a region’s upper vegetation, its fauna escapes the flames by heading downhill. Soon, the underbrush around us was thick with small animals, rodents fleeing and snakes crawling past us, headed for the nearby stream. Then, the animals got bigger. We saw a desert fox. A small herd of deer. A mountain goat. The rising plume of smoke caught the sun’s dying rays, scattering them downward to bathe our campsite in a fading, ethereal glow.

“I hate to break up the party, but everyone has to get ready to evacuate,” the troll called over to us from the road, adjusting the straps on his oversized hiking backpack. Pots hung from it, clanking loudly. A radio sat at his waist, crackling. Although there was still light in the sky, his headlamp was turned on full blast, causing those of us facing him to wince.
“My friend just texted me that the only road out of here is blocked, bro,” the boyfriend said, yelling drunkenly over his shoulder. “So relax. Nobody’s leaving here anytime soon.”
Bobby Hill stood there for a moment, shocked.
“I said get ready to move out,” he hissed through clenched teeth, his voice shaking with rage. He stepped over the rocks that bordered our campsite. As his light played over the ground in front of him we could see that his hands were balled into fists.

The boyfriend fluidly shifted position to face him, picking up the pistol in the same motion. He fired three shots, two of which hit the troll in the torso. Bits of cloth shot from the backpack as the rounds exited Bobby’s body and kicked up tufts of dirt on the embankment behind him.
Before any of us could speak, a brown bear came crashing through the underbrush near the cinder-block outhouse. The apex predator turned our way and focused in on the troll, who was stumbling backward, geysering blood, and making a strange, burbling, screaming sound.
Behind the bear came two cubs scampering.
She hit Bobby in the chest with a massive paw, knocking him clear out of his backpack, then pounced. As we ran for the nearby food pantries that were big enough to fit a full-grown human and strong enough to resist a bear attack (according to the manufacturer’s sticker), she started to chew his face off, throwing chunks of meat back at her mewling cubs.

In the shelter next to mine was the boyfriend. He was breathing heavily but didn’t seem too upset.
“Is everybody alright?” he shouted, once the sounds of dragging and snarling had stopped and the night had once more grown silent.
I cracked the door to my shelter and peered around carefully.
“I think we’re good,” I said. “As far as I can tell, she’s gone.”
The boyfriend crawled slowly from his own pantry.
“This shit stays between us, right?” he said, getting to his feet and wiping dust off of his pants with the hand not holding the pistol.
The troll’s backpack was still there, but his body was gone. The boyfriend followed the trail of Bobby’s blood with a tactical flashlight attached to his sidearm. It led downhill, disappearing into the stream’s gloomy, gathering shadows.
We looked at each other, then shrugged.
“All I saw was the bear attack,” I said, whereupon the boyfriend tucked the pistol into his waistband, threw his arm over my shoulder, and walked me back to the picnic bench.
“I knew you were the homie,” he said to me.
Everyone had a good laugh as we cracked open fresh beers and the boyfriend cut up thick lines of blow. Then he stood, gathered up the three spent shell casings, grabbed Bobby’s backpack, and spent the next hour carefully burning every bit of it and its contents in a distant fire-pit.

“As long as we make it out of here alive,” his girlfriend said, “you guys wanna do this again, uh, next month?”
I was the first to nod.

[This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events or individuals is purely coincidental.]
​
© JPR / whorphan / americanifesto / 場黑麥

dreamstate writing 29 April 2017

I settled into my seat at the end of a row of stadium-like seating, near a wall. As far as I could see up and down the curving white tunnel in which I sat, the other seats were filled with people of all ages, races, shapes, and sizes, some of whom glanced at me, making eye-contact. I had the feeling that we were all waiting for a big concert to start, although I could not see a stage or screens in front of us.

At some point I stood up again and walked down the stairs to a flat surface farther below, where I performed some dance moves whilst hovering a foot off the ground. I overheard someone say that the show would be delayed, after which I walked into a massive hall filled with escalators made of dark glass lit up by neon blue lights that were transporting people every which way - sideways, longways, up into the ceiling and down through the floor.

I left the massive hall, stepping out onto a balcony and leaning over the railing in front of me. I jerked back quickly, however, for I could not see the ground below, so faint were the floors below me illuminated. With me on the balcony was a large, dark-skinned figure clad in blue who tended to stay out of my direct field of vision. After a bit of searching I found a railing that stood above a balcony one storey lower, which caused me less fear even though I could still see the many dimly lit floors below but not gauge the height of the building in general.

americanifesto / JPR / whorphan / 場黑麥

ribbon of river

It was a clear, fine day. The sun warmed the clay wall behind him and danced off patches of snow that dotted the distant mountain highlands. Before him spread the dusty valley in which he had grown up. Far below, a slender ribbon of river had begun to flow, a sure sign that Spring was coming.

The sheep grazing on the craggy slope in front of him were not his own, but those of his mother’s brother, a stern-faced man who disliked him. The shepherd cared not for politics or religion, only that the animals under his care made it home safely, each night, and that he could feed his wife and young son.

In the skies above him he heard what sounded like a broken motorcycle. Then the ground shook, his world went black, and the man who’d spent his life in honest toil was in an instant radicalized.

americanifesto / JPR / whorphan / 場黑麥

Liberty grew lopsided

The Tree of Liberty grew lopsided, one side of it green and youthful, the other brown and decayed. Watered for many decades only by the blood of patriots, we the American people had all but forgotten the Tree planted to mark the sacrifices our ancestors had made to free us from foreign oppression.

Since the days when the yoke of British domination had been shrugged off, the fetters that had enslaved us to the will of a distant king cast away, we had allowed instead a domestic tyranny to sink its roots deep into our fertile soil. Wide it had spread its tendrils, grasping vines dripping with poison that had permeated all branches of government in such a way as to make it indistinguishable from the dominating fetters long before shattered. Such was the reach of this tyranny that it had climbed halfway up the Tree of Liberty, to choke the last of its life away. When one of its roots was dug out, however, the other roots would grow thicker, the persons empowered by this tyranny too rich and greedy, their stranglehold on the throat of Lady Justice too firm. But the blood of tyrants could water the Tree of Liberty back to her former glory, and but through united effort could We the People rid ourselves of the oligarchy that ate daily of our sustenance. We had allowed the vines of tyranny to cut us off from one another, though, its sickly leaves our tablets, televisions, and cell-phones through which broadcast the hollow speech of angry talking heads.

Only by standing together, three hundred millions united and strong, could we prevail against these tyrannical injustices. Splintered as we are, however, the sacrifices made by our brave forebears will come to naught, and the Tree they planted for us will soon be pulled crashing down.

americanifesto / JPR / whorphan / 場黑麥

thousand souls spoke

Each second, a thousand times a thousand souls spoke the god’s name. It was Thor’s day, or Thursday, and the Norse deity of lightning swelled with power whenever a person uttered his name.

The day before had been Wednesday, or Wotan’s day, named for the All Father. Buoyed with spoken supplications, Old One-Eye now lounged, fat and happy, upon his nearby perch, absently counting the runes stored in his pouch. Wotan cared not that millions of people voiced the name of Thor just one day after they voiced his, for he knew that, in six short days hence, his coffers would once more fill.

Thor could not bank the power he received and therefore spent it, loosening his bolts upon land and sea, striking at swaying antenna, steadfast building, and leafy tree alike. Pausing in his labors he glanced over at Freya. Her day was Friday, and she was languidly strapping cat to chariot in preparation for spreading fertility and love upon those who dared speak her name.

americanifesto / JPR / whorphan / 場黑麥

not necessarily now

“I can’t believe you’re making me do this,” the man said. Even though no one was forcing him to do anything, he started to do the thing he didn’t really want to do but had pledged to do. It was a trifling job that required, at most, ten minutes of full concentration.
“We’re not making you do it,” the others replied, puzzled looks creasing their faces.
“Yes you are!” the man ejaculated, the color rising in his cheeks. “You’re making me do this because you asked me to do it earlier, and because you’re all looking at me and expecting me to do the thing I said I would do - at some point - not necessarily now.”
“Then don’t do it now,” the others replied.
“But if I don’t do it now,” he said, momentarily abandoning the task and standing up so as to address them face-on, “you’ll keep looking at me with expectation on your faces, with silent judgement lurking behind your gazes, and I can’t stand that type of pressure.”
“We won’t think less of you if you don’t do what you said you would do, what you agreed to do in exchange for what we already did for you,” the others said calmly.
Again he abandoned the task, which was almost finished, and sat down, dejected. “This is taking so long, guys,” he said. “I have better things to do.” He pulled out his cellphone and started mindlessly paging through social media apps.
“The reason it’s taking you so long to complete this task is that you keep interrupting your own work to complain to us that you’re doing it,” they said. “Based on your comments, we now assume you never intended to keep your word and do the thing you said you’d do in exchange for what we did for you.”
Realization dawned upon the man’s face, only to be suffocated by his acquired habit of complaining, whining, and blaming everyone else but himself for his lot in life. He bent once more to his labors.
“There,” he said, stepping away from the task and throwing down the tools he’d used to complete it. “Are you happy now?”
They stepped forward to inspect what he’d done. “It looks like you did a poor job of things, meaning we’ll have to spend our own time fixing your work. Plus, you didn’t clean up your tools, meaning we’ll have to gather them up and put them away, ourselves.”
“It’s all vinegar with you guys, and very little sugar. Consider that the last nice thing I ever do for you.”

[The author has himself witnessed a similar exchange, and thinks that this text highlights the self-centered  and short-sighted tendencies of many Westerners living today.]

americanifesto / JPR / whorphan / 場黑麥

🝚𝈱 Ƹ.␣⚲ᚃ𝈣ᚃ⚲␣.Ʒ 𝈱🝚

though hidden, they’re visible; smaller, not bigger - the complex reactions that some will call triggers

shameless war criminal

The fascist gave the order then sat back, elated, to watch the launch of more than two score cruise missiles. The fascist owned stock in the company that had sold the missiles to the government he headed. He would profit personally from the launch, and he knew it. Most of the missiles hit their targets, an airfield being used by the sovereign military to fight terrorists in nearby Palmyra. At least one missile veered off course, however, and struck a nearby village, killing nine people.

Four of those nine people were children, but the fascist didn’t seem to care, since his personal wealth had increased in the aftermath of the illegal act of aggression. Soon after the missiles impacted on the airfield (which had been largely cleared of military personnel following a warning given by the fascist), a group of religious-extremist terrorists launched assaults on nearby military garrisons.

The strike, therefore, appeared to many observers to have been a way to provide air support for violent extremists who’d long ago abandoned the last vestiges of their humanity. The fascist, it seems, had also abandoned the last vestiges of his own humanity to appease Mammon and Moloch, bloodthirsty gods who shower worldly prosperity upon those who make sacrifice of human blood to them.

americanifesto / JPR / whorphan / 場黑

dreamstate writing 11 April 2017

I had climbed into a rail-mounted, bullet-shaped carriage in order to visit a subterranean Harry-Potter-themed attraction. With me in the carriage was another entity, a male figure who has been for the last couple of nights leading me through massive hollow structures that are poorly lit and full of shadows. The structures remind me of abandoned airport terminals. I encounter few other entities in these massive structures. The shadows, however, are often alive with fearful and stunted figments that follow me, tracking my movements.

The carriage had stopped at the door to the attraction. A backlit panel displayed the logo and name of the attraction as well as a clock showing the minutes left until we could enter. Feeling confined and cramped in the suddenly tiny space (my head and torso had been bent backward on the way into the narrow tunnel), I had jumped out, whereupon I found myself on a flat plain lit as if by a full moon shining in the sky on my right-hand side. Dead trees and ruined buildings stood upon the plain, their outlines at times pixelated, at times clearly defined. To my left was a three-storey building, dark, decrepit, scary.

A few hundred meters in front of me was a line of tall buildings that appeared to form the boundary of the plain. A shadow moved there, jet-black eyes winking open in a jet-black body. It oozed swiftly my way, flitting from shadow to shadow. As it came closer it took the shape of a giant dog. Panicked and full of fear, I cast about for a way to escape the bounding beast’s gnashing jaws. I noticed an open door in the collapsing building to my left but resisted the urge to leap through it. Instead, I lifted my right arm. The shadow-dog grasped my right hand in its mouth but its teeth found no purchase, and no matter how hard it whipped its head around, it could do me no harm.

americanifesto / JPR / whorphan / 場黑麥

keep in power

In a perfect example of autonomous self-degradation, two members of the working class today butted heads regarding an illegal act of war-like aggression carried out by the person legally in charge of the nation-state in which they lived. Instead of turning their energies toward toppling the existing power-structure and reclaiming for the American people resources badly needed to fund education, health care, and infrastructure, the pair spent time and effort arguing over who was more foolish, who less well-informed, who more of a snowflake, pansy, weakling, whose life was worth less in the overall scheme of things.

Instead of marching in the streets to protest the killing of innocent children by a war-mongering proto-fascist, they threw words back and forth across the wireless aether, neither side winning, both sides losing. Wasting their lives in this way, they played right into the hands of - and helped keep in power - the few thousand individuals who own all the money and property in the world.

americanifesto / JPR / whorphan / 場黑麥

corporate shrine opens

After more than 130 years of planning and construction, the immortal quasi-entity known as the American Telephone and Telegraph company (AT&T) proudly opened its first officially sanctioned religious shrine. Half of the funds used to build the shrine came from a special federal tax credit granted in 1946 and renewed every years since then thanks to intensive lobbying efforts.

Nestled into a grove of lacebark elm and desert willow on the western edge of the corporation’s sprawling Dallas campus, the glass and steel structure was blessed by company monks in a three-day ceremony that ended 4 April 2017. To commemorate the government-sanctioned monopoly over communications that AT&T has enjoyed throughout most of its existence, and as an expression of thanks for the many favors and gifts they have received for allowing said monopoly to continue, all members of both the U.S. Congress and Senate unanimously declared 4 April a national holiday - Your World - Delivered © Day As Brought To You By AT&T. (The name is the holiday is subject to change according to the whim and fancy of said corporation’s marketing department.)

The shrine features kneeling cushions as well as benches for sitting. Its inner wooden walls are adorned with images of the company’s various logos, which it has changed over the years to signify not only its fantastic might but also its anti-free-market, artificial, un-American dominance over domestic and international channels of communication. Persons seeking to pray at the shrine and worship the holy corporate iconography should wear closed-toed shoes and dress appropriately - women in blouses and dresses that cover the ankle; men in button-down long-sleeved shirts and slacks. The faithful should arrive before the crack of dawn in order to be assured a spot at which to genuflect before the omniscient and immortal corporate entity that is AT&T.

[This article is satire; no part of it is intended to be taken as a factual representation of any corporation, entity, notion, party, person or persons, living, dead or immortal.]

americanifesto / JPR / whorphan / 場黑麥

nary a meter

He worked furiously to keep the balloon afloat, rushing about here and there gluing on bits of canvas to the many holes that riddled its exterior. Inside the balloon was only hot air, of course, agitated gases he replenished frequently using a burning brazier tethered to the underbelly of the ungainly airship.

He dared not stray too high, into the realm of the gods, where the strong and mighty winds live, out of fear they would rend the balloon fully and send him plummeting to the ground. He avoided straying too low, however, into the realm of demons, where the base and greedy urges wallow, out of fear he’d heed the siren-calls of booish pleasure and forfeit the sacrifices he’d made to lift off in the first place.

For a brief moment, his airborne mount stayed level, nary a leak sprung, nary a meter gained or lost. As he loosened the knots and closed the gates, the contraption in which he had for so long ridden suddenly vanished. And he floated there - serene, unmoved, filled with nothingness.

americanifesto / JPR / whorphan / 場黑麥

one drop more

The bladder was dry. No matter how much he twisted or squeezed it, he could not wring from it even one drop more.

Frustrated, he took a seat upon the dusty soil, carefully tucking his legs into half lotus, or Sanpan, the closest he could get to full lotus, or Shuang Pan. In his lap sat the empty bladder.

In concentric circles all around him, multitudes of people clamored for a drink. In pairs they came, in dozens and in scores, each person drawn to the promise of relief from thirst by forces their minds could but poorly comprehend. Within him also lived parched and starving friends, tender souls he’d neglected over decades. For many years he’d chosen to let the bladder pour out into the dust, onto the sandy soil.

He felt the bladder grow heavier, a slight shift in weight. With tremendous effort he overcame the desire to please those clamoring without and drank from the bladder himself, not to quench his own thirst but to nourish the friends within. The first few sips went to them, and they slept, finally, their needs for once met.

But then his mind got involved. Greed blossomed, and he drank to appease his mortal body. Of a sudden, the bladder was dry... and he could wring not one drop more from it.

americanifesto / JPR / whorphan / 場黑麥