The balloons have had enough of me and my parties. Their pity is gone, replaced with fury, and they begin to bob up against me on purpose. I don’t like the attitude, so I slip on my brass needles. Now they back off. Helium makes real cowards. I examine my rib cage. The contents are a box of instant photos in an old violin decaying in the rain. Have I really been a ghost this long? Is that why no one but Desire comes to my parties?
Miniature Moon 