(1) The bleak know not the depth of chagrin inveterate within the psyche of its town, its rarefied denial of crystalline negation beneath gray skies harboring frostyfaced cynicism, the slander of ingrained ingratitude. The forlorn complacence of generations and their genetic indifference to all save fate’s icy, cyclic decree of redundancy.
(2) Some say yes, those were the older times unspoken of and forgotten, remembered only by sight of decaying steeples and remains of redbrick streets alongside rusted tracks, of abandoned factories with weeds in cracks and broken panes of window glass, alongside the slowmoving boatless river beneath the drawbridge that never rises, reminisce of its clangy warning bell known but to the big graystone graveyard of deadmens’ snows amid the brittle bone of leafless trees and bluish dusk fogs, these drinkless mists of drunks and gods!
