Moonsong Glacier worship

his own son.

independence must have shed the light of order off of him, but bartholomew would not break it back into him. he had never been a hammering male.

he was a scalpel. delicate, precise. making openings to let that light back in.

i am,

the truth, even in his ragged state.

i have taught many, i have spread the word, i have helped others with their strife and grief.

his eyes did not pull off of his son. a near man now, their time as a youth never seemed long enough.

the silence in the air lingered.

are you happy with yourself?