Mines dug with boots.

Oh fuck,

Oh Lordy fuck.

Murdoc is running,

And stumbling,

And running,

And stumbling,

And running,

And stumbling,

A-and….running.

A-and…stumbling.

Purrfect.

Dirty hands,

Lifting heavy,

simple motors,

the day after Christmas.

Dirty, heavy hands,

Lifting simple motors,

And shoving them into the back of the truck,

And bringing them home.

Wrestling these engines,

Bringing them home.

Broken things,

Bouncing about in the six foot bed,

Down the tree sheltered road into Lodge Forest.

To the even ender edge of this world.

So he drives them home,

Past Bauers farm,

Past Folkes farm,

Past Todds farm.

And the deer,

Which are not here,

Walk quietly out of the fog

And stand and wait to wonder

What lies on the other side of the road?

“There are no deer in the Fort.”

And he sits in his truck

And waits,

Patiently,

As they cross the lonely dark road,

Making their way home?

What drives them?

It is simple.

And it is the same thing that drives Murdoc home,

Out, onto 

and in the black water,

That must be home.

Gorgeous creatures,

With purpose,

Let them amble about,

And stamp

In the glow,

In the blinding glow

Of heavy headlights and terrible cold air.

Purrfect,

Walk away,
Run away,

Run,
walk,

Into the dark and tangled brush,

The place where light

Is split,

Refracted,

And where what ever this is,

Is warm,

Purrfect,

And home.

Run,

Walk,

Stumble,

Stamp away,
Bury broken boots,

Stand straight and feel the power…

Within.

This is your world...
will you live it?

Murdoc can only imagine.