January 24, 2014 § Leave a comment

The saw, in knuckle-tight grip, palms chaffed and blistered in rough leather gloves, has rhythmically, achingly dismembered the blossom tree, each pull and push a painful, labouring moan while fragrant dust was falling. Now all that is left, ripped in ghastly surrender, lies like the head of a Jabberwock: fierce, silent and dead.


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