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If only to hold on by opening lord give me this one eighth day

How do we get there, to where we can answer what the jingle is asking.

I will make my own man I will stitch together a coat of drunk minks

Bright rot laces the air, light sharpens each leaf. On our way to fallow, fire.

There was nothing sadder than the look of defeat in a man’s eyes.

I open the door and Eleanor is leaning against the wall, paper white.

Appearance does not really appear, but it appears to appear.

The window washer smiles a little and licks his lips. Nadine smiles back.

“The basis of literary friendship is mixing the poisoned bowl.”

“Fuck you,” I said, but it was hard to say it with any meaning.