No more number. Not in this for the counseling. Shoot because I mean to be a beaut. My aim is lumber shyly in its shed, resting breeze. A hard humus burdens this gun, needs out.
Death rattles the detached cage door that bones the car.
2 dimes fly into a dumb roll. Taps plays, evening slips into its bonus chamber. The sun drops like a bead to the hammer primed below the layer. And the street becomes a concert, every person squats aside the flank of his own killed rhythm phenom. You know it s a long day when the world doubles, when a shadow world stuffed with one fat coroner eclipses the stars.