08-04-09_03 Rice Pressed Into The Dirt

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I pretend to cry by waving my fingers in front of my eyes.  Those who have shoes wonder what it is like to own two pair and those that have none wonder what it is like to have toes or, in some cases, feet.  I never take my shoes off.

Days of wonder are done.  The God and His gods are have been used and depleted, whored out for small, temporary tasks.  There is no magic. Only food, bodies, ideology and wars.  Above me:  managers with better meat and bread, bureaucrats with too much free time, faith-healers and local deities.  Below me: simple technicians, workers, the useless and unfed prisoners.

We weld steel to steel.  Only the best steel will do for a chain is only as weak as it’s strongest link.  Do you see?  Over the land a cloud is rain-full and pleased to release upon the unproductive land and the well-met crops.  The seeds and roots know what is expected and the resolution is before them, with gladness.

I went to the food lot overlooking the river and found rice on the ground, pressed into the dirt by shoes.  Man, this guy is full of it.

Text and images © Andrew Auten – All Rights Reserved.