Every time you walked into a room of any kind someone, something was crashing. Someone, something, was being crushed, smashed, burnt, killed, pulled about, trashed. Now we fly the flag of obedience. Let us study the geography of a well-behaved atom and savour the salty taste of exaggeration. Non-toxic, untainted, a feast of rotating symbols.
Fractures squeak on the summit.
Spring withers and summer smothers. My portrait cast its skin mile after yellow mile. On the walls thin traces, oily cells preserved and exhibited down the stairs. A medicine finish, a craftsman's touch. He slipped into consciousness like a burglar.