My hair lies across my back like a woolen shawl. Headaches are quick to come and slow to leave. Your pretty tits be hangin', Zillah-Eden. Cruelty and violent ironies peppered with only fleeting moments of joy and beauty. We are, all of us, set adrift on a garbage planet, thinking confidently that we've not already been cast into Hell.
Life has a hollow soul, brittle as a rotten stick.
It's the human condition to turn, to rot, while still living, like a ruby-colored tomato blackening on the vine. Pickled in fear. Human tissue can be dissolved in it. When you don't care about Time, when you sneak up and ring its bell, Time turns on you. Fear compounded by Time is deadly.