We Must Break The Back Of Summer, Brothers

Brothers! Merely walking from my apartment to the subway has felled me with a most grievous stroke from the sun’s blazing hand. The Dolorous Finger of Auguste — the treacherous pommel of Ƿēodmōnaþ, the brown-breath’d thrust of the Grass Month — has laid waste to the beauty of my perfect knightheart and knightbody, and I am struck all over with swooning and great dole. I am passing heavy, yes exceeding heavy in calefaction and grief. Brothers, we must gather together and break the seething spine of summer! We must wrest Sirius the Scorcher from his minatory pursuit of Great Orion across the heavens, must check his course and wrest him down from the sky before his ascension is achieved, lest he breathe fevers and aching miasmas over the brows of men for ever.

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