Life is happening. Eventual. Urgent. Epidemic. No cure for the deluge. The monsters mull their mission. Devouring at their discretion. As we are all wont to do.
The orbit rules us. The apogee teases. Torn masks. and frayed fringe. Like dying lanterns and rabid racoons. The garbage collects. And we have to pretend we don't smell the stench.
Because that would prove that all those monsters are real. And we are so much more helpless than hardened hair gel and burn grilled cheese sandwiches.
alone. in the stifle of cellophane. as it tries to imagine us away from the desolation of this melting mask. these ringing doorbells. that are never sweet enough. these heavy sacks of treats that weight us down.
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