A snack for the Medium monster
Echoes I
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As a matter of fact, Headless Bertram was a rather gentle soul.
We thought the apocalypse would be gray. Or maybe it’s more accurate to say we were sure of it, all of us, without ever stopping to discuss it.
Gray. Like ash. Smog. Industrialization. Disease. Decay. Tombstones.
Gray had been our foreshadowed demise all along, and here we stood, too blind to the signs to realize what brewed on the horizon.
her name is
glass upon a lake
swirls of spindrift slurry
a chrysalis escape
The bottle in your fridge reminds you a bit of thermo-nuclear waste, which isn’t something you want out of any substance taking up residence alongside the food you eat. But then again, you weren’t the one who left it there.
Do lightbulbs preclude fun?
Like blind, grubby children chasing a capitalist nirvana, we’ve taught ourselves that money is required for happiness.
