Mr. Xmi Te, ancient Chinese philosophical smitty, spends much of the afternoon contemplating our sunset hours.
Face turned to that dizzily hurrying orb (now finally slowed to an orangy glide), Mr. Xmi Te reviews the prefecture’s receipts, brushes his doorstep, and recalls, drunkily, old drunken friends.
What is that distant clamor of swords clashing?
Will the soldiers come home before I am too blind to see, too deaf to hear them?
Have they come already? And am I gone?
Sunset.
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