Brown Brown

Huddled out of sight. in a corner. in a soundless state. with confusion and want, my gaze falls to my tiny lap to this eager little kill-trumpet outgoing in its' rat-tat-tat nature a defiant, quaint little toy unapproachable. coaxing. Danger or no danger, job or no job, these fingers are little. I strain. the Brown Brown runs its' course. the trigger resists; perhaps it's a sign is this a sign can I stop now, i'm not fit. i'll take some more Brown Brown please sir but I am not fit.