Puffing profoundly on an old bone pipe.sat the old woman on rickety stool. A white tendril seeking altitude from schorching embers. A wafting spirit casting errant admonishment.
Dusty footpath of a million footfalls all on missions of redemption lovelorn weeping allotments of anguish,pain and hope.FULLSTOP. At sunbeaten,rainbleached risers three in number. Splitpea fragrance wafting to greet. Maybe collards too.
"What can I do for ?" But having asked,she already.knew. To.walk.out to.the.shack.was.a.profound procession. Made by many,owned by.few Seeking solace from.the.witches brew. "You need.a.poultace ? Cast a spell for.you. ?
Ramshackle rundown house of dreams,nightmares and stalking horses. Beads and potions.come back lotions. Love notions out the window.like startled ratbats.
The little shack of sorrows. Old time mystic.sitting on a stool. Jingle pennies in pockets.