writingeek

in the end when i'm almost gone and all i've left is a red lamp and a ragged song to pave my way into the thunderstorm let every raindrop murmur i loved you and lost nothing but emptiness and the company of ghosts

Genesis But for the small purple stain on its border, the banknote was non-descript. It had a value but men value things in different ways and by different means. It had a value, but its value is not it's story. It landed on the church plate face up, coming to rest softly on the flat silver base amongst the loose change like it was tossed to the cloth of a gambling table, soundless but with a small sense of resignation. A man paying for luck, a man asking his God for a favor. It came from the wallet of a small sad man, who feared the Good Lord daily. The banknote was the weekly price of his penance, the bill of sale for those half-remembe