Crackling flames crinkle the cold air in the woods outside my memories. Why run when the river can carry you smoothly to a symphonic sea? This fire’s name is Aurora, and she is melting the guns my father taught me to grow. The blasts pop like candy in the mouth. X rays blast through my holographic skull, revealing dancing neurons. The sinewy little sluts grind on while my memories collapse like the furniture I tried to put together, too female for the hammer. Familiar only with the nail.
Miniature Moon 