A wandering crone, lowly form of an immortal serving her conqueror and her gay betrayer, their common cuckquean, a messender from the secret morning. Four omnipotent sovereigns. Something moves from the corner of your eye. She didn't like it because I sprained my ankle first day she wore choir picnic at the Sugarloaf. Doesn't bring in any business either. Not so lonely. "What is that noise?" The wind under the door. Bravo! Parleyvoo!
