We can't afford to clothe these damn kids in fashionable fabrics of freedom. I'm too poor right now. Matter of fact, I'm way past poor, more like less than . Frames develop and that pervert time shows me what I was doing while she and I were screwing . . . Murder in the first person.
Yellows now beam bright from the corners of daylight.
Frail fetuses drop in dew from the womb of the night. The sun tastes death and grips the demised in intensity. December daytime cremates the remains as I awake mid-funeral and sigh a yawn as they ash.