Out on the mudflat, mulling over mudthings. The tide is about to turn. Hitch up your pants and head for the beach.
I think it was a crime of passion.
Or a crime of opium.
okay, I am NOT an advocate of capital punishment, but THIS crime is shaking my resolve.Maybe just weeks and weeks of hard labor in a garden, tenderly growing lovely things, weeding like mad, digging, installing stone walkways, etc. For YOU. And YOUR garden. When it's beastly hot.And when they go home at night, it's to an empty, dry, weedy lot.mmph.
You're too cynical, Hugh. It could've been a girl wanting fresh seeds for a muffin. To bring to the riots.
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