She could not help thinking of Capes. Gerald was conscious of that sliver of irritation again at mention of the name. Howard Spurlock. The dream flowers and is harvested, and we are left by the wayside, having served our singular purpose in the scheme of progress: as the orange is tossed aside when sucked of its ruddy juice. ‘I see well that I am dealing with you. As she did so, the ruffles to the jacket of her riding habit fell away, exposing livid blue bruises about her wrist, ugly in the light of day from the window at their back.
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This video was uploaded to thenextfuture.net on 23-09-2024 19:29:23
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