Felonious, bedraggled off-put league. To dawn comfort I would bid you learn again the mild mannered hazard of a saintly few. Lord and master of the whimsical. Silent servant to the clumsy hands of brigand’s fog. We lopes, we rambles and takes what we’re wanting as it presents it treasure. Third and fourth personal references aside the time of gallantry past we fixedly embrace those proud oafish meanderings. Silence an impossibility, stealth beyond question, now to chaos, calamity and anarchical misdirection. We are those ruffian, riotous lot begot with a hunger never quenched but by the loss and tears of innocent folk.

What to the desert so clean, so well swept with the high winds past midnight, racing bound for the starlit sea. Why such hurry, no dawdling, bring her nose about that we might take full sail and challenge the hands of time to stop us for we reach tomorrow. Laws passed, not with intent of adherence or accountability, but with the stylish manner of appearance. We must be seen going about what we are to go about. No questions no curious eyes no reports to the Queen of those who’ve gone against her good pleasure. We are the needful obedient, seeing the consequences unpleasant we skate, never late and will debate with full fire and fury of men stricken to keep nose half inch above lake.

That I could have done the right things eleven times and the worst at first. It is not for the mild to pursue life everlasting and the walk commensurate with aligning to perfection’s call. Standing apart, never far enough that assistance may be forgotten or love offered with a strong grasp and a pull of bread and wine, but reluctant nonetheless to become one with terranical. Dream of hopeful transformation and rebirth to a world solely explained by its inexplicable nature and our lack of imagination. We humbled by unspeakable sovereignty lay down our quest for mortal riches to place our hope in those things only achieved, seen, obtained or realized in passing. Those impossible things beyond the realm of intelligence yet twice brilliant than the greatest mind has known. The magics of mystery born in the Word’s whisper in power and purpose. For the August few.

What then of my lusts? Why must they be bridled as I tighten my jacket and pull up my trousers to show the world the curvaceous nature of a man born to midnights fill? Why must it be answered this interrogative regarding too much or overdone, for that is the only prescient reaction in desire’s call the endless cup to be filled and once again turned inside out looking for each savory drop? We are not held by wind, light and time but by the raging inferno of our heart’s newest cravings. We serve the master who doles out ladle upon ladle of fat filled mead, buttered with cinnamon and salted with carmel flourish to soften the will of the righteous himself. We pay no heed to doubt or faith, what need has man who serves his own mouth and belly for the things that will earn us time beyond that which we will use to visit the trough of life’s pleasure?