November 3rd, 2012
Like a pack of virgins entering the party, you leave with two black eyes and a wonder to look at.
You hallow out those eyes and point to the sky: there, you say, there is where the killings stop.
And as you point, from up there, where the killings stop, down floats a feather which lands at your feet.
This feather was from the last dead bird of the day, as if the paradise you know can go fuck itself. A man with a shotgun comes by and tells you:
You come up now, or don’t come here no more...