The clock says quarter after Autumn, but the jagged edge on the air says something else.
Look up in the sky.
It’s not a bird.
It’s not a plane.
And it ain’t Superman.
She took an early flight and brought a lot of luggage like she wants to stay for a while.
And it seems like only yesterday that Summer was stretched out on the sand, little beads of sweat on her bronze skin, smiling that inviting smile that made “work” seem like a wholly alien concept. Nothing left to remind you of that now but the toothbrush she left behind and an emptiness against your body where she should be.
M’Lady de Winter.
Isn’t she the malevolent mercenary bitch who ate Athos’ soul raw in Dumas’ Three Musketeers?
Doesn’t look like she has a pleasant time planned for me, either.
She’s the Winter of my discontent, but there’s nothing novel about it, and the son of York is not going to come out tomorrow. Your bottom dollar is a sucker bet.
For M'Lady Liberty, my long-lost first love, this may be the final Winter.
Maybe the phoney flying flu vaccine will kill her.
Maybe Obama will pull the plug so she can have “death with dignity,” rather than drudge on with such a diminished “quality of life,” that he's helped to diminish.
But Death is rarely dignified, though it's quite often permanent.
The American Dream was a sweet one.
A Republic with liberty and justice for all.
Of the People, by the People and for the People.
But it was a Summer Dream.
And Summer’s gone.