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The Farmer brushes their thumb across the blade and deems it sharp enough. Back onthe ground, amongst the crop, the soft metal reflects a ghostly blue. Ghosts are always blue, aren’t they? In the same way that the plague is black and the whale is white and the Scythe is long and looming. Some type of truth that is not a reality.
The Scythe and Other Simple Mechanisms
, T.E.Z. Moore
You keep your tools ready, sharp. You never know when the sport will call for it. The river awaits, the river also requires the blade. How do we sever this life from that life? How do we cut that which we cannot see? Our ancestors tell us: we cannot. The thread is always there, the path is always followed, and you—you linger in every hollow, saturating the air with every sweep of the blade.