To Art and Soul
The stole clung to me in a frantic embrace as the howling wind soared phoenix-like, as if to obscure me from a vision that unfolded numerously in an age of ravenous cats and human game. The rising heat, the damp of perspiration, the raucous jeering of a throng of fifty thousand mounting rapidly to a crescendo … and a gasp! A deadening quiet… The air hangs thick with anticipation. Every muscle tense, all eyes are on a distant figure, far, far below. Nothing moves except the wind, wailing its... Sign in to see full entry.