Breadcrumb #60


Unfortunately the blood vessels of this particular animal were not quite blue or red but more like a muddy jungly green which color you and I could never possibly have been warned fairly or squarely about. It isn't anybody's fault, but the moral cloaks over this deer park and everywhere causation persists don't bother discerning accidents from purposefulnesses.

     Just looking at the veins in our kill, who you and I have regrettably discovered too late is more like some sort of a wooden antler-lord, is like hacking through big wet vines and I think I speak for us both when after our slicing through adventitia and media we were shocked not to find intima but instead thick green cords as much belonging in this deer park as those cords twined as we speak around the branches above us.

     It was a shot far, far behind the wind-hissing leaves, but you and I have to kill a thing and bend close over it to see the colors in its veins.

     Believe it or not before the woods close in upon us finally I want to stop your tears because you couldn't have known and being about to die doesn't necessarily mean you're a bad person. There's a green core in the deer park and firing at it was for us not in terms of deserts any more contemptible than had you walked under a tipping tree that flattened you or had lightning struck the canopy and stopped us from finding our way out of an ever-recedingly flameless glade.

     We should be pleased that our fingertips have hiked along so much endothelial overgrowth; few are so lucky as to dip into the warm angiological streams that we have. How harshly can they blame us when we find ourselves finally in that wide and distant chasm for cracking the deer park's core?

     His mouth lolls open and his teeth are covered in bark and you can see the deep green ranine vein under his tongue which has splayed down onto a wet bed of limp, bored-through leaves. The wound in his side does not bleed and does not throb but pours out thick spongy strands with the industry of a desecrated termite mound. His paws don't end in pads or fingers or twigs but anyone could have mistaken what they do end in as any of the three.

The wound in his side does not bleed and does not throb but pours out thick spongy strands with the industry of a desecrated termite mound.

     Your heart has driven your blood 12 thousand miles since this time yesterday but your blood has done nothing wrong and your heart is not a judge.

     As the green veins rise in arches from our quarry's wound and twist between our fingers and toes and as phloem clots our veins and vascular paths cut through us I think it's fair to say that there is no such thing as punishment in this deer park and no such thing as law. The tree that tips or that lightning blows to singed bits has not done anything wrong. The angiologists who kill the wood-lord are made into his ornaments.

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