"While it is true that all good things must come to an end, life is not good and it goes on forever. All life is unending. Though we may cease to breathe, love, and yearn for physical love, we carry on yet in the shadow of the world; in the realm of dreams. This is so for all things that live: wooden ducks, dead rats, and potatoes. Even Indians dream, though savagely of white women, horses, and wampum.
At Barrow Gulch, the dream shadows of the departed hung heavy, like the unmistakable residue of blood left in the streaks and creases of an exquisitely crafted wooden duck. The wooden duck laying sadly amidst the throbbing and bloody shards of Char's manly shattered brain was larger than one might have guessed. When Char had carried the duck wrapped in fabric, tied with rope around his neck, his broad and muscular back grew weary with its weight."
Monday, December 5, 2011
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