A bustling of noses and wind blown hair gloating over goats which bleed calculable blood. One pence, two pence, three and thereβs a crowd surrounding a tunic at the top of the stairs.
Oil was discovered, covered by a man in a tunic sharing meticulous dreams, dreaming in the gear-grind way of life. Hoarding lubricant beneath stands and markets, and marketing water.
Turn to Piegans, Bloods, and Blackfeet proper, prop her against the boards and rest the nail against her temple, temple where a man in tunic flipped markets like gear-grinds unearthing oil in fire exploding jelly purple dye, dying is the goat upon the stage
on page one hundred and three sun-blisters burst on screaming merchants