Ever since that crafty fellow wrote about Faulkner smoking down to a fine white ash, many reviews have ended with this trope, to the point where it is a cliché (these are different than cliques, but the latter use many of the formers as in-jokes, I have found).
Today I discovered something that burns down to a fine white ash: my pants, or at least a portion corresponding to a bit of blazing Burley in the wild.
Onward to the joys of patching...
Today I discovered something that burns down to a fine white ash: my pants, or at least a portion corresponding to a bit of blazing Burley in the wild.
Onward to the joys of patching...