“How old are you Hogo.” “Thirty-five Jane. A not unpleasant age to be.” “You don’t mind then. That you are not young.” “It has its buggy aspects as what does not?” “You don’t mind then that you are sagging in the direction of death.” “No, Jane.”
Tags: old, you, Thirtyfive, Jane, unpleasant, age, mind, then, young
Her plates are scarred by the sun, dear lass, And her ropes are taut with the dew, For we're booming down on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail. We're sagging south on the Long Trail, the trail that is always new.
Tags: plates, scarred, sun, lass, ropes, taut, dew, booming, down
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