War.
Primal brawls with no true victor
Wherein swords copulate
And birth babies through the hilt.
Disfigured, disjointed and vertically challenged.
The babies grow to old age
And cause their parents financial trouble
Because they're spoilt and want everything
Shitty kids.
There is a war in the North.
If only I could distinguish it from the South.
This isn't a metaphor about cultural bias or stereotypes,
I just don't know directions.
"Perfect." Sidwell thought, leaving his quill on the page, leaking ink over the few words he was inspired to write.
