There is smoke rising from somewhere in the hills.




All of the curtains are shut and something is boiling.



It's inverse, now.







Blood goes to the head in the winter.

Like falling in love with a waitress who is always cold and likes sex in cryogenic labs.



(They came out as usual.)



They are drinking tea with iron somewhere out there,
where they are revolving without revolution.


That teapot may come to a boil one day and at it's microscopic whistle, the dogs will come.


An old woman (who only shows her face in the lightning) told me of peripheral vision sitting blankly in the living-room chair.

I feel the hallways moving.

There is a finger in my back, following me and hovering.
It is pointing to something, like there are secrets in the marrow of my spine.









It takes fifteen minutes to reach the border from here, and a week to grow those tusks.


At the very least,
both of them would land you



Away from here.