When the devil came he was not red.

Alas I say that to praise this morning would be to utter the basest of lies. As the nostrils search for air they find nothing, save that which would frost the devil's blood.

My heart despairs, and I weep. Lo this long night just passed has granted no greater wit, nor deeper wisdom to these poor knaves and fools. Will they always tread on this same path?

Will sleep visit? Yea. Will mead thicken my blood? Again I say yea. Will the grandeur of the cinema fill mine eyes and stir mine bosom? Perhaps.

His horse carries him into virgin lands this day. Before nightfall his hands will touch the maiden fresh.

© 2005 by justin michael cresswell