cuttlefish carapace.

spent an hour shooting up liquid islands of nitro-glyceric positivity and a short temporal space building my dreams around the sorry structures of your cherrystone clavicle. and then you shrugged them off with a click of your castanet bones and some day our chernobyl fatality will send reflexive demifires scattering white hot through little boys' veins.

and maybe one of the infected will shout with laughable conviction
'i don't care if the world ends since i won't be the one to blame
and the denouement is disappointment splattered all over the page'
and pull the plug and drain the universe into antichromatic odd matter. and maybe the spiral catharsis will reset this event timeline into motion with him at the very epicenter of all this radiating improbability.

he could breathe, "let there be sound,"

and maybe nip all of this in the bud.