My arms weep- prepare to let go. My sex is decimated, and a sandstorm is a banshee behind my eyes.
Night strides over the city.
A tempest lurks within this windy house. He reaches Over his head, the stars are insects sucking blood from the night. A scarecrow burns poetry in a blazing room. The air outside is damp, and beautiful for swampchildren. His eyes are reflected in the flames, and illumination mutilates him.