Len Gurts Tries Narrative

The count left. He wasn’t really
a count, but he let them have that.
“You know who the count is, don’t you?”:
the sayers. The sayers.

Then he left. What did he build? O a great thing. An almighty
thing. Little did he detach though: he built
what he left behind, the very human
thing that he was. The count…ess? The count-ees, if you will, were left

with all his pills and money but no blood, which made them
wither, blaming and blaming the count. The count (do not forget
his name; but
maybe you could make up your own?) said little

sometimes, sending drops to appease. But could they be pleased? What do you think?
What do yours do
when you visit, at night? His ones
laugh while he flies

through the darkness still too scared to cross the river.

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