That was 1965, the beginning of the silver epoch. Bud did not give it that name until enough decades had passed for him to finally catch on.
This place is mine. Five generations of my family are buried here. My father is buried here. I cannot leave.
Since heroes are typically portrayed as being similar in nature to we mere, mortal, human beings, it would stand to reason that their experiences would alter them; yet, this does not happen.
Intricate whorls and loops / like the flight / of summering buzzards / who swoop through the hollows / and hover over ridges / to capture updrafts
