The snow falls carefully everywhere, silent as a full moon night. TV tubes blather trivia into importance, while I shave wax for candles. This candle will be red. Wax curls off the knife, smooth and shining, fractures to perfect prisims, crumbling fragrant. Nothing is ethnically balanced.
Serious guests promote laws against beauty pagents.
Wax begins to sag over heat while shells rumble and thump along the treeline. This candle will be the color of blood but the room will fill with gardenias, mystical. Bisexual basketball players are graded for fashion sense while napalm flares in orange flowers, leaved in black. Devout personalities decry irreversible damage done by TV violence as I stare, numb, calm, at the jelly that was once Johnny Boy. Tom, on the other hand, has become a fog of atomized meat.