"To be alive? To be hanging above the fire. To be hanging on a rubber coated little wire, in the soapview heat dissonance, that kind of refraction over the flambe, and to have meteor showers, the phase of the moon calling to the earth, and so forth, a dismal recounting of previous years of ones life, not skipping over the empty moments, but making one sit through. 1:1 ratio, bebe."
The Good Dale is in Hangar 18. Tell Diane for later.
Across the temporal spasm,
the wizard sits and dreams,
from his dismal spoons
and his dust-covered things.
A decade elapsed,
a moment suspended in thin air;
one interlocutes heavily,
but the bootless cries carry
no further than the banks of the Juniper.
I don't presume to be too much, but I hope the Good Dale climbs whatever mountain he needs to climb to catch the murderer of women, two women, near twins, as it were, just bullets from an old Colt Peacemaker.