  the three peaks ... and the dried soil caked on the boy's very adolescent legs. the rest of the boy was merely a portrait of uninspired human ruins, of destitute and dystopia, and what had left of it was a face marred with fresh blood stains that would never stop, not until he had breathed his last at least. the air never seemed so still before; but only when Mister Hope had trudged around the corner and urlLink out of sight with the chains of restrain on his ankles clinking before him had the world turned pitch black for the boy, and he left a most torturesome world for the next.
still at work on ngak howe's third essay. always requires a lot of thought, you see: i'm already out of ideas. tay says to use the interweb as my big library. screw the national library, you've got project guthenberg: sans the attractive covers, the pretty printed text, and the irreplaceable satisfaction of flipping to the last page of a lengthy novel. okay. bye. 
