The thought that I might kill myself formed in my mind coolly as a tree or a flower.
I could feel the winter shaking my bones and banging my teeth together.
Worse even than your maddening song, your silence.
Do we always grind through the present, doomed to throw a gold haze of fond retrospect over the past?
The woman is perfected. Her dead Body wears the smile of accomplishment.
I'm doped and thick from my last sleeping pill.