(no subject)

Slowly our ghosts drag home: glimpsing the sunk fires glozed
With crusted dark-red jewels; crickets jingle there;
For hours the innocent mice rejoice: the house is theirs;
Shutters and doors all closed: on us the doors are closed -
We turn back to our dying.

Since we believe not otherwise can kind fires burn;
Now ever suns smile true on child, or field, or fruit.
For God's invincible spring our love is made afraid;
Therefore, not loath, we lie out here; therefore were born,
For love of God seems dying.

Intro

Kimmi Wallace, Problem Solver, Age 23
Solves problems large and small. Specializes in difficult cases. Prices vary.

secrets secrets
Son of Hunters. Nonviolent. Neutral party. probably lying