Calamity rides a yellow bicycle down a facsimile of a country road. Along the dusty edges, market stands offering the juiciest news and freshest betrayals. My house is at the end of the road. The windows glow blue like dead computers, and inside my ghosts are serving me brunch in their red checkered aprons. I didn’t invite Calamity. Only the stupid do. But she will come anyways, flinging the carnations in her bicycle basket into my outstretched hands, demanding to know where the bathroom is.
Miniature Moon 