The owls are flying low tonight.
It is happening again.
A poem as lovely as a tree:
As the night wind blows
The boughs move to and fro
The rustling, the magic rustling
That brings on the dark dream
The dream of suffering and pain
Pain for the victim
Pain for the inflictor of pain
A circle of pain
A circle of suffering
Woe to the ones
Who behold the pale horse.
... you're going back to Missoula, Montana!
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