Tuesday, September 2, 2008

Shining Absolesence

Puckered feet-flesh. Some walks were water-worn smooth, a contact on heels relaxing as brushing dogfur. Chilly. Presumed frogs hop from shrouding grass to pass plop-indicated dives (ripples eradicated in an omnidirectional river). A sogginess catches on his left hand and he lifts it to see shredded brown...leaves? It returns to the current which bore it from a flick.
Along comes the stench of a man who hasn't washed in anything cleaner than clogged sewage debri. He hasn't come to clean up now.
"Sancho you sumbitch don't stare at the bark so. You're making lichens grow."
Our unnamed foot-dipper doesn't reply. The stinker sets down his pack and sits in Sancho's place, leaving his feet in wet-run, until he is Sancho and forgetting his dirty clothes leaves the stench.

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