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THis is a great book for anyone who wants to get more in flow with the natural seasonal year not just witches. It has great recipes, lore, and asrtological phenomonon listed. My local bookstore sold out early last year so I made shure to buy one right away this year and I live in an area where there aren't many pagans. Ti is really good if it sells out like that.
I walk down the street, clutching my paper bag. Inside, Tuscan Whole Milk, 1 Gallon, 128 fl oz, and a pack of smokes. It's cold and the wind bites my cheek like a hungry rat. I pull my collar higher and slit my eyes as the banshee tugs at my coat.
Something pink in the gutter. Metal, twisted. A child's lunchbox. Barbie perhaps. Flattened by traffic, the indifferent tires of the city bus or the gaudy spinners on some drug thug's Escalade. Once upon a time this was the pride and joy of some little girl. Now, discarded, like this city. This city which was once the symbol of our industrial might. Discarded like the union cards of retirees as they watch their benefits shrivel and their 401k's evaporate. Ignored like the leaves which blow into burnt out shells of once majestic houses, to rot in dank corners as the timbers lean and mortar crumbles.
Michigan Avenue. Four lanes each way but not a car or person in sight. It's dark now and the punks rule the streets. Good people still live here but trying to keep the gang bangers, meth heads and crack fiends out is like holding back the tide with a torn raincoat and a pair of rubber gloves. No one around, no witnesses. They can sneak up behind you, kick you down, steal your wallet and even give you a tattoo with their dirty Air Jordans before anyone comes along to shoo them off. They smell fear with the instinct of hyenas.
Life has changed for me ever since I started drinking Tuscan Whole Milk, 1 Gallon, 128 fl oz. No more apprehension, even though my limp, a souvenir from 'Nam, gives me away with each step I take. No more hiding like a cockroach.
I heft the Tuscan Whole Milk, 1 Gallon, 128 fl oz in my hand. The weight feels good. My combination lucky rabbits foot and brass knuckles. Drunk from a tall cold glass, it can be a honeyed elixir giving strength to your weary bones and adding resolve to your spirit. Swung properly, with enough momentum as you pivot on your opposing foot, it can break your opponent's nose like a toothpick. At least my 3 years in the jungle were good for something.
Dark now. Shadows behind me. From the corner of my eye I count two of them. Punks. They swarm the weak like maggots on putrid meat. They've got something extra coming tonight.
I tighten my grip on the Tuscan Whole Milk, 1 Gallon, 128 fl oz, slow my walk and smile to myself.