The cold relentless circling of the intestate earth

A man built a thing. He had a name, in those long-before times when salmon ran in the streams like silver clouds in the moonlight and people went about their business in great cities gleaming with glass as yet unmelted by fires from the sky. His name was Patrick B. The thing he built was built from bricks and told a story. A story about a man and his child a boy. That story was first told by a man named Cormac McCarthy in a book called The Road. A book is a thing made of trees but you cant eat it like you can bark and leaves and the little stems that try to push their way toward the darkened sky at the end of the months of snow. This thing this story these bricks by the man Patrick show the man and the boy as they walk long miles along long roads to the sea. It is a thing to behold. A thing you cant look away from.

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