All the beauty, all the time


The farther he rides the more lovely the day, the city's flux and peril less than a sorry rumor to the spring-green grass, the deep blue well of the sky; welkin is the word, empyrean, there is a word for everything.



. . . Rudy nearly as beautiful as St. Sebastian, smooth skin flecked with hair as fair as the damp strands stuck to his curving cheek--Come here, to touch and be touched, to grasp and stroke and taste the sweat that runs like salted honey down the runnel of his spine, to posses for moments what feels eternal, the flesh's best gift to the mind.




And the river in the sun is pure silver, is flecked with green, is cold when he kneels, low, low, to plunge in his hands, this river he swam only once, but he will swim again . . .


The future.


So worth fighting for, all of it, all of us.


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