One morning in May a horsewoman might have been seen riding a mare along the avenues of the Bois de Boulogne, amongst the flowers.
Joseph Grand’s final sentence, Albert Camus’ The Plague
A how many line legacy Sweeps history's dust Floor-length crises Bring out the mess in people On a given day Who called the morning fine Where handsomeness is strewn Across the oft-described gardens A character's character won't suffer additional revision The pencil's mightier for the erasure As a pen rehash is a new page How many times and how much Can a passage bare before it tunnels Off the continent and into irrelevance Tweak genius fights completion savant A duel that can't agree on ten thousand paces Or a single step Either way The one who takes singular life Shakes, swears, and follows To exist irrevocably at the intersection Of meaning and the Bois de Boulogne
Roman Ryan 