The shutters on the old wooden house were a canvas for the fire's flickering catharsis of light emitted through the glassless windows in the village, and the air swiveled the leaves on the cold autumn night's ground. A mixture of safety and danger fought on a civil battleground of hope, envy, and fear for Aboma. He could not quite place it, but the balance made him feel that his mood was felicitous.

He went inside the village hut, took off his shoes, and ate his supper.

Meanwhile, CamCin scoured his dark tower for a thesaurus so he could look up more adjectives with which to pepper his prose.

OOC: Aboma = Obama? OMG

( o Y o )

I don't want to know how that last post relates...

Me neither, it was just something I wrote up bored at work.

dude write like 20 pages of this and trhen submit it to the white house when obama arrives, he'll make you poet laureate and give an honorary doctorate of awesome
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dude write like 20 pages of this and trhen submit it to the white house when obama arrives, he'll make you poet laureate and give an honorary doctorate of awesome
.
.
.
:cool::omg::omg::omg::omg:

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