exitus in dubio est

Did you hear the shot ring out? I swear you could, even from where you're sitting.

The smell of death always follows the sound, like a dog follows a boy through the woods, the dead leaves disintegrating beneath their tread.

Are you well? Well, are you?

Damn Sam.

Blue. Moon. River.

Song. Wrong. Longing.

Night is a wish and a weariness, woven together into a pair of wings.

I'll fly away home.