Grewd-dew-face (Bob Hoskins)

-walking, modifier unknown

part of a the "Quay Journal" with minor edits. Precise font copy.

Benchmarks were on my legs. It was getting cooler when the rain fell slowly, settling into pools on the brim of my hat, an irrigation collector. The garden lay beyond, inside the big gate beside the tall building next to the side of a large wall, sideways-written on it, “Kill the people who love pinot noir.” The grapes we grew were white, sweet and full of cardioprotectives. The bluejay flew into the garden, as I picked up old tin cans, he gulped down the uvas, scoffed at my pleas to leave and then flipped my the BIRD, that bird.

When the rain hits my head, the rain sharpens my wits. Wither the sprouts germinate into the harvest we seek, the Samhain desires confusedly mislead from the will of sophisticated Diaspora. Just as the Altar of Pergamon worshipers drew the diluted mix of Bacchus and “Beelzebub-brethren” to the same arcane architectural-commission, these grapes brought a foreigner, sometimes temporary tenant to the vines. He would mock the daylight later, I had that feeling, chirping and mimicking until the AM arrived.

There were many grapes that day. It was a Thursday, and the lightning bugs came out a bit early. You could see them in the SHADE, UNDER THE LARGE SUMAC on the side of the lawn. You could squish them, seeing their fluorescent jelly ooze out of them. I have yet to learn what they eat, exactly. I used to think that the idea of using them as temporary lanterns at night was foolish, but let’s see what the Ancients used to do; utilize your resources.