Whitebark Stream luftschloss

"you are greatly trustvorthy," mahler quipped. "no tingling of poison. no sour taste."
he moved toward the water, meaning to wash the bitter red from tongue and throat. both somehow still dry in her presence when the man turned back and sniffed at the plant again. "yet, i cannot tell if it is meant to be medicinal, or only decorative." rote rambling, the chunner of a man grown squeezed and breathless with his own unsaid things.