He'll die within the year and you'll be bunching up your stomach in your palms for the hungry sorrow and silt of it. Visually, a grand duke. Aurally, a flying sheet with pillow and caffeine. A line of cells surrounding a soft center coding for life. Henchmen are another expression of lust.
Silence is a strangling of the urge to play.
A quiet hand is one that isn't twisting a towel, a birdneck, or a waterbearer. In several rotations the bunch of grapes fastened by a stream of sweat to a plastic globe will break off and hurtle in a hysterical trajectory toward an innocent. The train passed this time yesterday. I hear it now, a family of geese, a fence to keep them out, and a ruminating murder inside the house. The cabal of engines.