Issue — December You do not have my permission to colorize. You do have my permission to rearrange. They were taken in order, but it interests me to imagine them either way; the brothers looking up, and then back down.
The brothers engrossed, then unpleasantly aware. Nothing else in the scene signifies which came first: the shot is mostly rubble, without a great deal of living subject to speak of, no flag flapping nor dragonfly on its circuit.
Seven-and-twenty and so chilly and weary; so ready to declare that I had arrived. It is probably what allows me to stand it, any of it. Just ever supposing it must be over. Doubtless you will find something just as striking for your celebration of the journalistic life of Leslie Kincaid.
Whatever it is that you manage to make of his work. I think what really unites us in the service is a desire to confess. To scream our secrets into the reeds. Even if you, or more searching parties, could get the truth out of me, none of you would be terribly surprised to find that I am agnostic. I fit the profile.
Even if you scratch me, I fit the profile. The word has a compulsory ring to it. I could describe damned near anything in misattributed Latin.
