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?
Miniature Moon 