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.

Risky grass points at the sun, accusing her, blaming her for their birth. Here, the bullets hover just above the nape of the neck. This is a wholesome place because Fear is the primordial feeling, black and polished as onyx. Fear is honest. It does not succeed in subterfuge.

Winter rebrands as peace. There’s a barcode in my phosphorescent heart. Scan it and ring up my frosted ambition. Music is balm to a world wounded by so much silence. To film peace, place cameras on either side of a drowning woman. Wait two minutes.