It is early. No other voices but the ones I carry. And the dogs'. Her lusting after the interloper. Her will to rule and be praised for it, loved, to be loved for it. How I blame her for my empty hands. The heart's dry beat. This rutted road. It is early and I can't remember the dream, only the act of dreaming, the certainty of being some other where. And now, not.
Telling: Streams & Logs