The Prince of the Bog
The mist was impenetrable and curled in intricate shapes, forming an ethereal spectacle in the dim light of the late afternoon. It danced around the sturdy oak trees, caressed the rough barks in an almost tender fashion. The gnarled branches of the trees swayed, leaves rustled, murmuring a soft melody that resonated throughout the heart of the bog. Though in motion, the landscape seemed strangely...
Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try Again. Fail again. Fail better.– Samuel Beckett