a fury of yeah, we were attacked.
The arroyo quiet, early morning, sun stuffed into a velvety coolness quite the opposite of it's late day blare.
"What kind of art do you do?"
"Sort of, uh, not sure how to phrase it really. Someone called it Applied Community Arts."
"There's no money and very little food here. Realistically."
"I still write and document life. Other peoples'. I don't really, I'm not like
"A real artist?"
"Yeah. I've been being very philosophical and into critical thinking and governance in a, um, kind of wild environment."
"Maybe this would be a good fit."
A wirey dog ran by panting hard. "Guy calls that one Toilet Brush."
"Gross."
"Can't change anything."
"The war and all?"
"People are going to do what they do."
"There are some others here now who said they might pitch in to a literary magazine or some kind of something. Could be interesting."
"At least something to do besides war."
"Yeah."
Time, no time. The exact opposite of regimental. Fifty shades of gray, so one hundred and two shades of caring and tending to. Adjustments in the build up to striking back.
Clawing for Catholicity or some semblance of moral footing. Out past even the discernment of friend or enemy in glances and ignoring.
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