the murmurless woods

The rawk o' the hills, and the mist o' the mountains, / Like the reek o'a pot, and the smoke of a kiln, / Draws further off still, while the round sun is counting / His pulses o' light o' the morning so still.

“It's not just one more thing, this is the big magilla,” Keena said.

An Alumnus gave me my first job sellin' cars supposedly but I was just a showpiece, a hand shaker.