The JobHe was apprehensive, the collective doing was a blushing reward and berry business. Andy Without entered the present and began the riot, the wild whooping rule, the unteathered design of jobs and jaunt, of work and will; he was accurate and alive, ready and in blessed rightness with the suggestion of mountainess gain.
Andy reached the summit of the mountain and plucked the blossom from its array of stones, the job, the job. He found salvation in the job, a confined wellspring of obligation to the quest and tide; the blossom stole his fear for echo’s of wild speed, for eternity with those who came before.
He saw the heart of the Sheppard and the wolf and they were one. The blossom honored the vision as sustenance and a neccessary evolution. A Job in the birth of nightfall and full moons. He would receive the wine of amber sprigs and calling horizons of shadow, wheat in rolling seed passed along the promise of a wolfs dream and in this he felt respite. The garden, he knew and whispered a prayer, “To paths that lead unto eternal love.” In the way of so many others Andy began his journey in rays of sunshine spirit keeping safe the secret of the sun at dusk.