A shadow across the soul, scars, My masters whisper in my head. Slaying dragons through a haze of smoke. I flow into my form, water evaporates it's sacrifice to the sun that turns it's skin to quicksilver. I am the now, the rain, the rhyme and the meter.
Dashiell Hammet's letters to Lillian Hellman engender Noir and namers, Ozymandias' insomnia leads to a night of writing, last of the good scotch, the last of the exquisite 'oghma' blend tobacco and backwoods cigars, I am the literary equivalent of Clint Eastwood in a Spaghetti Western.
My sky, I am halved yet whole. I am two and too.