ABSTRACT
Like the little fences cast around crumbling rock and the barricades sprung up to hold back the landslides of the future, the author is standing tall, bearing weights and burdens; like the fast flash camera of the coach-full aimed inexorably at every peak and billowing cloud and the caramel hair, systematically brushed, of the young girl on the 08:21 from Glasgow to Fort William who alight sat Roybridge; and the freshness of the royal blue in the old carriage made new which now stands monument and idle a flower bed at best. French horns galore; like the fierce gradients, inclines and ascensions on my molars, pre-molars and half-in wisdoms precipices conquered by mine own pink tongue and just one or two others; like their electric roots which only cause more pain as time goes on and will never be ancient and foster and promote an imperfect bite, which I wouldn't bother criticise there's just no time.
