Job is walking along the brook on a sunny and feathery brisk fall day. Late afternoon, middle class fucks would pay for the sound the brook makes free for the dirt to hear, chirping along its rocky, green, and murky course. Job is outlining his corpse today. The brook is his smile when completed, he will stretch across four hundred pinecone acres and leaves, leaves will be everywhere. He spots a place where his naval will silently rot, and touches the tree for a moment, hoping it a little to the left, bending down and arranging a rock and a stick. To continue, he jumps the brook, slips and misses the flat rock, and feels the wet cold filtering through the hole in his boot, filling his sock, as he catches his balance. The rock clacks, he walks on, moving a branch from his path, breathing in a spider web. A bird springs fluttered from a treetop ahead, his eyes set lightly on their final resting place and he rolls his thumbs in a magical way so that the tree remembers, and will be prepared. He walks on, treading to the place where he will give his feet to the earth, a wind blows, the leaves have their dry rustle, they love doing that he says, and an owl hoots.
Further along, Job squats and rubs some dirt between his fingers, he rubs his fingers along his gums, yes with the dirt, tongues a worm, a baby peut-etre, out, gently spits it in his hand, gently places it in the damp earth, and gently covers it with damp leaves. A thought pokes his mind, and he rolls over to the brook, slightly wider now, cups his hands for water, drinks, and swishes the dirt in his mouth, spits out his mottled grin. He stands, pulls back his breeches, and pisses not two feet from where he had set the wormlet. He watches the dirt melt into further wetness, two little streams heading off, only one guessing the right direction, heading for the brook and its gravity, he drips, dribbles, and finishes like abstract art splatter around his little wet indentation. This is where he will put his left hand. He will remember now, his worm will grow strong on his dexterous fingers.
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