Here is a short tale about seven brothers and what happened to them.
A very long time ago there were seven brother who lived in a village. Over time, one by one, the brothers died, until finally only one was left. Eventually, he also died of old age.
Those who knew the last of the brothers, felt his loss, and those who knew him hardly at all were less touched by his passing. That’s the way it goes. Of course this all happened long after the nine legged horse ran along the ridge just beyond the village, and Farmer Brown’s largest pumpkin hatched into a scarlet peacock that carried off Miss Margery. Well, some villages are like that.
Once there was a ruler of a huge country, who carried with him a large black umbrella. Now this was not any umbrella, for it was made of indifference, and it blocked the rays of empathy and understanding. So everywhere the ruler went, he cast a shadow of indifference that scarred the land with black empty cracks that separated the people from one another.
Terrible things happened, some brought on by the Fury of Nature, and others created by the poison of ignorance and hate. The People shouted at each other in shadows, and the blood of children wept, crying for comfort that sickened as it trickled in the gutters of false accusations.
Slowly, all those that stood closest to the ruler, family, friends and advisers were stained by the ugly ooze dripping from this ugliest of umbrellas. They could not clean themselves, and unable to speak truthfully about their appearance, they fled the loud whispers pointing fingers at them.
A huge wind, made from the breaths of dying children, rose up and gathered strength. So strong was this wind, that it began to tatter and fray the edges of the Ugly Umbrella. Even so the ruler hung on tightly, trying to protect himself from criticism and opinions he did not wish to hear. There were those in the land who shouted support to him, for they too feared being faced with uncomfortable truths.
And so the shouting and the wind both grew louder, and the very fibre of the land twisted and knotted onto itself. They say a sharp blade will one day arrive to cut the darkness, and let the light heal the land; others say all that will remain as it is, a bloody mess.
Still others say this is a tale too terrible to tell, while those that mock claim this a poor fable that belongs in a comic-book. Perhaps, both these opinions are true.
Samuel Pepys, wrote John Evelyn, was ‘universally beloved, hospitable, generous, learned in many things’ and ‘skilled in music’. John Evelyn, wrote Pepys, ‘must be allowed … for a little conceitedness; but he may well be so, being a man so much above others’. Pepys’s assessment of Evelyn was made early in their relationship, in 1665, and Evelyn’s assessment of Pepys was made on the day that his fellow diarist died, in 1703. So rest the reputations of our two great recorders of Restoration England: Pepys, the middle-class son of a tailor, was a man of the people; Evelyn, the heir of a country gentleman, was a notch or two above.
A Dadaist Fairy Tale
People notch Poppies on zero trees – spy silver buttercups;
He wrote a day’s miles like this.
There in the middle class … in six sieves was a fiance’s consciousness. The person I loved, slept and learned.
In each Lyndon recorder, a constantly yellow pasta man by the forest was written in prose.
He or she is a “universal need” in John’s generous ocean. There was a middle class … the heart of the groom was in six corners.
Our musical relationship with rust is ours to dance –
let time hammer out the edges of our days.
The reason why he wanted to make this work the strongest was the claim that this research was not a controversy, but actually a taboo.
The descent brings mystery,
So the dead apparition of Vermilion Motion is born –
This is an atmospheric aria of forgotten tranquility, that comes to us from a lost age of magic and wonder.
Why was there a yellow stick?
The remaining creatures move only one.
I want to rust.
A glittering and long shining jungle writes taboos in the palm of your hand, as I thank my friends.
A good gentleman,
In that, and quite deeply –
finds a comfortable experience of bread-lid bedrooms.
Erythrocyte pebbles light pyres at the feet in my sand. Who is in each area?
Those that say they love lovers, and the swamp.
This is an atmospheric aria of forgotten tranquility, that comes to us from a lost age of happenstance and enchantment.
Now Go – this is the search query corner class –
ask Other Eyes, the tailor threads fate in your pockets.