The dying have their own language. It lives within the lexicon of silence. We borrow from its pages at dawn and dusk as the world spins its nights and days beyond idiom. Now not now. Now not now.
Nothing is plural.
The dying have their own language. They have stolen it word by word from their gods who have stolen it word by word from the living who word by wordless word have learned it by heart. Across the grass, wind of the prairies whispers over the sweet blanket of the West. Mountains glitter in wild conversation reared against the deafening blue of Western sky - spare air, crystalline space, I like the idea of living where man's history is short. Blood has been shed, but not as much, the Earth not drenched like Europe.