Concord curtains crusted with sultry amethysts drape the windows of my mind. My mind is an old Victorian. Pink and purple with yellow trim. In the corridors are ghosts. The dead pace about my mind with their leger books, counting my sins and disintegrating my offspring. To be the moon glowing alone and cold – how wonderful. Instead, my thoughts are but drywall dust blown away as gusts of brain damage convulse through me. The windows have voices, and they all sing Intuition by Jewel. Sell yourself, just cash in. Already did. Here, sweetheart. See the agent hawking my hallways to purveyors of lust?

Voracious velocity vivisects my slow grace, the day chomping at my peace like a piranha. I was having a delightful time – finger sandwiches and ostentatious bird song, when the all encompassing pace of contemporary social drivel knocks me out of my luscious galoshes. Now I paint black polka dots on meerkat caskets, waiting to retire and expire.