1923
The dirigible came down with a nearly
silent thud. It was 1923, and I was sitting
back, smoking a Chesterfield, thinking of
Amanda, thinking to rise at the chance of
a lick. A lazy dog sang a dog chant nearby;
as well as me, it was getting by. Cherry chant,
and why all the people I know now weren't
even born yet then. How and why is this
overlapping time, so frightful and strange to
me kind? I am no longer enchanted by Life.
The nature of Evil shall proceed - from all
the groans of my heart. No place to rest, and
the thick neck of my buckler, it is holding me
in place and he keeps me down, has no
pity upon dust and ashes. It is 1923.
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