Only plowers can expect to become harvesters.
I'll be dashed if I gan another step for less 'an oaf.
Golden tracers from the jaggering MG42 buzzsaw lit up the air like glitter, and from both directions there were bee-hive-volumes of whizzes and snaps as bullets passed through the air, in some cases only feet from them.
For some reason (decades of responsiblity to cleanliness and hygiene — what lady could blow her nose into a locust leaf?) the inability to place my hands on what would once have been a commonplace item unnerved me; were we to degenerate into filth and snottery?
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