Second Sunday of the month, we'd march back. Cornets first, then horns. Tuba last. Even now, walking to work, I step to that drum. @130story
(3 stories)
Second Sunday of the month, we'd march back. Cornets first, then horns. Tuba last. Even now, walking to work, I step to that drum. @130story
The seconds marched by like ice ages as he watched the vase fall float downwards towards its inevitable destruction. @130story
Most of what he screams from his bed as he dreams is nonsense, but occasionally there is clarity; and "quick-march" is the worst. @130story