Mountebank

So as this charitable wind curses the nostrils and clogs the throat, summer falls. The stolid bitterness of winter is all but gone and the spring has sprung. An abyss of warmth swarms the air with a rage like none other. When I whisper in the wind it serves an example of the volatile thing, because when I wish a dream would happen, it oaths to make it come true. But when summer brings its warmth, the man falls under a spell and forgets its promise. A lenient bird and a dewy grass. The bikinis and summer trunks. The pesky bugs and irritated voices complaining of the extreme heat. I sit under the comfort of my mind. I dormant myself under the rising sun. Through seemingly endless college preparation, and the rampant teachers cramming under the final ticks of the clock, I find peace in the inquisition. So I look upon the stars that motion to me. I survey the moon to understand the beauty of it all. I see the scars upon its surface and find that part of the reason. A compounded substance flows down a steep slope and then descends down a waterfall. The light shatters through the pores of the water and the sharp edges of the rocks stricken the blow, burying the victim under the weight of its frankness. So I sit. I sit and wait. Then I sit and do. Then I run. Then I sit. Sometimes it seems there is no progress. Am I an overzealous worker, or am I cast out? Believe me the questions keep coming. They never stop.

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