10/16/23

Shouldering boulders these giants cannot be stood on. No room for chaff or wheat. Just stones and stones and stones sedimented into a perfect projectile to hurl at the rabble, the rest, below. My loves and I are ground to dust, one thousand stones rain down on each of us so the roles rend into our flesh piecemeal, our agony prolonged. And the giants gather up the gorey rock into a great mound to carry on to the next.