by Zel Kuroi
The roiling clouds overhead are settling, their aggregation aborted. The hail no longer pings on the roof of my car, and the raindrops lancing down like spears disperse into gentle misting sheets.
Because their orchestrator is in the trunk, his massive wings crammed in and folded out of joint. There will be no judgment today.
Sunday, December 6, 2009
Ezekiel 7
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