How Some Rewrite Their Epic Poems

We are all fine people here. The landscape is lovely and the weather is soft. Someone is always on duty. Usually it’s the solver of problems and this is a nice touch.

At three the bell chimes and we gather for tea. The evenings we weather. They’re not always lush. Some of us have candlelit dinners with our sane old wives. Others rewrite their epic poems.

I don’t know what is worse, a tumbling marriage, an uplift bra, or a sane experience. Sleep can be bad. I, for one, no longer dwell in fast times, urgent needs, or confusing moments. For example, in the last dream I remember I was overhearing nothing.