Here, this is us. Essayists, triers and tempters of both fate and our selves. Trust fund brats and usurpers of brother's birthright.
Despite the news of the end of the world we walk on steady earth. She does not wobble—and if she spoils, we revel in her grapes and sing the songs of sailors and soters.
Here, this is us. Sons of a bittersweet nipple, a yet un-severed nave. Sons and daughters of a most high God in whom it is fashionable to deny our allegiance, while we rot for doing so—like the grapes—like the cannibals that we are.
Long is our ink and yellow the page on which it is lain. No matter what brilliance spills from our barrel, no matter precedence in cannon; no matter if a Russian in grandeloquence or by the subtlety of the finest Jew. Here, this is us.
Coyote caught one-legged in the dirt-trap; one eye pleading for salvation, the other aimed at heaven's own tree, and no idea at what lies beyond or that our days number only seven.
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