The day glossed, lost to a tar black starry brush The trees bare, stare at the water’s moonlit rush. Waking leaves, unmaking their burnt orange bed Walking, talking, eulogize departed seasons dead. The year near end and only quarter full The dark dresses the wolf in winter’s wool.
Algo is from Ireland. In self imposed self isolation, Algo only wears black and enjoys studying the school of Austrian Economics, reading comic books and meditating. Algo once believed he was a nihilist but now believes in something higher.
