It began as fried bacon, adding a gallon of water and two carrot. Sanctuary an instinctive reaction. We lay buttering our dreams, kitchen in wilderness, absorbed in winters night. In the morning we shall create life with grilled sea trout and let it begin as fried bacon. In silver chairs we dream, regalement to give us steel rule. At night we sit and in day begin.
More chicken stew. The meat had fallen off and we ate well. The moon will shine. Resonance in murmurs they tell us. Winter will be here and we might better our shelter in the coming days.
“Nahh” said Willie, leaning into his bottle. “I like it here.”
I imagine he drinks now, resilient to change. We should meet again, tell our story one last time, and if neither of us can remember, we shall invent one much like this.