Being Snide

The day was like something from Emily Bronte’s wet dream; men were wearing loin cloths sweaty, soaked in

Start again.

The Moon shone through the trees, children played underneath its blossoming bloom, possums screamed at each other as frogs raped

Take three.

Death was

Take four.

My life was so bereft of imagination that I wrote this post.

Finis.

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